How To Die

Dark clouds are smouldering into red    While down the craters morning burns.  The dying soldier shifts his head    To watch the glory that returns;  He lifts his fingers toward the skies          Where holy brightness breaks in flame;  Radiance reflected in his eyes,    And on his lips a whispered name.    You’d think, to hear some people talk,    That lads go West with sobs and curses,  And sullen faces white as chalk,    Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.  But they’ve been taught the way to do it    Like Christian soldiers; not with haste  And shuddering groans; but passing through it    With due regard for decent taste.