There's a blurr'd roll of drumbeats. The soft south wind straying In to fresh whitewashed walls, in thro' clean curtains swaying; Stealing warm over birdbills, honeysuckles a-Maying, Over piled baskets swinging from plied knockers' playing; Past peonies, trilliums, syringas, outstaying The first flush of spring; in from gardens fresh growing, Clean swept; On where, close-ranged, the head-stones are showing Enwreathed and enshrined in love's full-tide outflowing, Starr'd with flags under battle-shot, stained banners streaming Down the long aisles' new shadows—the enfilading fifes screaming To drumbeats. And slow feet, as the last salute flashes, Step softly—rapt dreamers—down the ranked graves' heal'd gashes, Back with Duty's shocked call while the war-fury lashes— The Call's cause, the conflict, war's upper and nether; The Call's cause and Fame's upmost, or ungratefulest nether,— With the futile fife's screaming, the drumbeat's worn leather, Halting back down the long dusty street—back together, With the wearisome years, thro' the evening, together, With the sigh of the southwind, the balm of God's weather. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARRIAGE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS MOTTO TO THE SONGS OF INNOCENCE & OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO by CHARLES LAMB THE CROPPY BOY: (A BALLAD OF '98) by WILLIAM B. MCBURNEY UPON MY LADY CARLISLE'S WALKING IN HAMPTON COURT GARDEN by JOHN SUCKLING |