HE limps along the city street, Men pass him with a pitying glance; He is not there, but on the sweet And troubled plains of France. Once more he marches with the guns, Reading the way by merry signs, His Regent Street through trenches runs, His Strand among the pines. For there his comrades jest and fight, And others sleep in that fair land; They call him back in dreams of night To join their dwindling band. He may not go; on him must lie The doom, through peaceful years to live, To have a sword he cannot ply, A life he cannot give. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT I'VE BELIEVED IN by JAMES GALVIN MATERNITY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SMOTHERED FIRES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DE LITTLE PICKANINNY'S GONE TO SLEEP by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON WAITER IN A CALIFORNIA VIETNAMESE RESTURANT by CLARENCE MAJOR |