The Going of the Battery
O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough—Light in their loving as soldiers can be—First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing themNow, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .
—Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchinglyTrudged on beside them through mirk and through mire,They stepping steadily—only too readily!—Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher.
Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there,Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night;Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.
Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerilyLit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to themNot to court perils that honour could miss.
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours,When at last moved away under the archAll we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them,Treading back slowly the track of their march.
Someone said: “Nevermore will they come: evermoreAre they now lost to us.” O it was wrong!Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways,Bear them through safely, in brief time or long.
—Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,Hint in the night-time when life beats are lowOther and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things,Wait we, in trust, what Time’s fulness shall show.
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