"You! What d' you mean by this?" I rapped. "You dare come on parade like this?" "Please, sir, it's -" "'Old yer mouth," the sergeant snapped. "I take 'is name, sir?" - "Please, and then dismiss." Some days "confined to camp" he got For being "dirty on parade." He told me afterwards, the damned spot Was blood, his own. "Well, blood is dirt," I said. "Blood's dirt," he laughed, looking away Far off to where his wound had bled And almost merged for ever into clay. "The world is washing out its stains," he said. "It doesn't like our cheeks so red. Young blood's its great objection. But when we're duly white-washed, being dead, The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLACES: 4. EVENING (NAHANT) by SARA TEASDALE THE FOUNTAIN by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL A SONG FOR THE SINGLE TABLE ON NEW YEAR'S DAY by ELIZABETH FRANCES AMHERST CUPS OF ILLUSION by HENRY BELLAMANN IN A BALCONY by ROBERT BROWNING FATHER O'SHEA WAS HIS REGIMENT'S PRIDE by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR |