Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters
morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that
returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness
breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a
whispered name.
You'd think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go
West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering
for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they've been taught the way to do
it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but
passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.
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