Soldier Poets
His eyes they were opened to Heaven,
His curls they were clotted with mud,
His limbs they were ravaged and riven,
His lips had a frothing of blood.
Yet clear to my soul spake his spirit,
As scorning the fetters of Fate,
As one whom the might and the merit
Of living crowned late.
Weep not for thy children, O mother.
Wail not for thy husband, O wife.
Let brother not mourn for a brother
Who fell in the foam of the strife.
For Pain we had looked long upon her,
And danger and Death were as wine;
And glory is ours, we have won her,
O mother of mine.
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