GONE WEST
I DO not think of them our glorious dead.—
As laying tired heads upon the breast
Of a kind mother to be lulled to rest;
I do not see them in a narrow bed
Of alien earth, by their own blood made red,
But see in their own simple phrase,—'Gone: West,'
The words of knights upon a holy quest,
Who saw the light and followed where it led.
Gone West! Scarred warrior hosts go marching by,
Their longing faces turned towards the light
That glows and burns upon the western sky.
Leaving behind the darkness of the night,
Their long day over and their battle won,
They seek for rest beyond the setting sun.
THE INDIFFERENT ONES
UNMOVED they sit by the stream of life
And its blood-red tide to the sea goes down,
While the hosts are borne through the surging strife
To a hero's death and a martyr's crown.
They pay no toll of their gold or blood;
For them 'tis a pageant and naught beside;
So they calmly dream by the reeking flood,
While the sun goes down in the crimson tide.
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