The Unconquered Dead

                            ". . . defeated, with great loss."


                    Not we the conquered!    Not to us the blame
                    Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;
                    Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
                    Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.

                    That day of battle in the dusty heat
                    We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing
                    Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
                    And we the harvest of their garnering.

                    Some yielded, No, not we!    Not we, we swear
                    By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill
                    Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare,
                    Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.

                    We might have yielded, even we, but death
                    Came for our helper; like a sudden flood
                    The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath
                    We drew with gasps amid the choking blood.

                    The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon
                    Sank to a foolish humming in our ears,
                    Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon
                    Among the wheat fields of the olden years.

                    Before our eyes a boundless wall of red
                    Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain!
                    Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead
                    And rest came on us like a quiet rain.

                    Not we the conquered!    Not to us the shame,
                    Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease
                    To hold them ever; victors we, who came
                    In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.