The Unconquered Dead
“… defeated, with great loss.”
Not we the conquered! Not to us the blameOf them that flee, of them that basely yield;Nor ours the shout of victory, the fameOf them that vanquish in a stricken field.
That day of battle in the dusty heatWe lay and heard the bullets swish and singLike scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,And we the harvest of their garnering.
Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swearBy these our wounds; this trench upon the hillWhere all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare,Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.
We might have yielded, even we, but deathCame for our helper; like a sudden floodThe crashing darkness fell; our painful breathWe drew with gasps amid the choking blood.
The roar fell faint and farther off, and soonSank to a foolish humming in our ears,Like crickets in the long, hot afternoonAmong the wheat fields of the olden years.
Before our eyes a boundless wall of redShot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain!Then a slow-gathering darkness overheadAnd rest came on us like a quiet rain.
Not we the conquered! Not to us the shame,Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall ceaseTo hold them ever; victors we, who cameIn that fierce moment to our honoured peace.