The half-light of a raw November day: A rainy sleet, glistening where street-lamps gleamed Yellow and white—glowing—like jewels, they seemed Broidery upon the garment of fog that lay, Shroud-like, o'er London— In the deserted street I paused a while, seeking to hear the beat Of England's heart, those distant sounds that tell Of hurrying traffic—life flooding within the veins Of a great nation, that strives, and toils, and strains. ... And all at once it seemed a silence fell, Breathless ... expectant ... Now broken by the sound ... Of muffled music, dimmed by the fog, that bound The earth more closely. ... Nearer, and nearer, still, The strains approached. ... Nothing triumphal here; A melody that spoke of pain and fear— That clutched the heart, like fingers damp and chill: And ever nearer, keeping the music's beat, Approached the steady tramp of marching feet. ... Suddenly, thrusting thro' the yellow haze, They came in view, a full battalion strong; Section by section, silent and stern; no song; No sound of laughter, as in other days Might mark the passage of a regiment— Only that wild refrain of dire lament. And, as the leaders passed with heavy tread, I saw that none bore arms—each marched arrayed In tattered khaki, muddied, and torn, and frayed; Rotten with age, and somewheres stained with red, A rusty red, symbol of ancient hurt, That matched too well the khaki's glaze of dirt. ... Now, as they passed, upon each face I gazed: A face of suffering, each, deep lined with pain, And ghastly white, or greying, as who had lain Long in the tomb. I started back, amazed, And, awe-struck, watched the terrible advance— The DEAD that perished on the Fields of France! A moment more, and, on a sharp command, The march was stayed: whereon, with faltering mien, I asked the nearest one, a lad, eighteen Perhaps in life, no more, marked with the brand Of war, and disillusion—"Say, what quest Is yours, that you should leave a well-earned rest?" "No rest for us!" he bitterly replied, "For us who thought by sacrifice to make Peace upon Earth; who for our Country's sake Offered our youth and manhood ... suffered ... died! The Land we loved, the Land we lost, to save, Has fall'n in ashes round about our grave. ... So we must wait, chained to this mortal clay, Until the world is clean, the strife is o'er— Till Peace, and soft Contentment, as of yore, Triumph o'er Greed! ... Only upon this day At the eleventh hour, we keep, each year, A tryst with one, Unknown, who waits us here." ... Obedient to the order, on again, Section by section passed ... Till all were hid In the enfolding fog. ... And still, amid The silence, I seemed to hear that wild refrain That plays them ever on— Till Peace shall reign; Till front to front, fanned by the soft winds' kiss, Shall echo, with a mighty voice ... DISMISS! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VARIATIONS: 15 by CONRAD AIKEN ETUDES DE PLUSIERS PAYSAGES DE L' AME: 1 by HAYDEN CARRUTH MARSHALL WASHER by HAYDEN CARRUTH NO MATTER WHAT, AFTER ALL, AND THAT BEAUTIFUL WORD SO by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE LOON ON FORRESTER'S POND by HAYDEN CARRUTH TWILIGHT COMES by HAYDEN CARRUTH |