IO it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough -Light in their loving as soldiers can be -First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .
II- Rain came down drenchingly; but we
Trudged 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,
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to
Not 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
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
Treading back slowly the track of their march.
Someone said: "Nevermore will they come:
Are 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.
II- Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint in the night-time when life beats are
Other and graver things . . .
Hold we to braver things,
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show.
The poem describes the departure of the troops to South Africa at the beginning of the Boer War (1899 - 1902)
