AUGUST, 1916.

I do not think of them — our glorious dead —

As laying tired heads upon the breast

Of a kind mother to be lulled to rest;

I do not see them in a narrow bed

Of alien earth by their own blood dyed red,

But see in their own simple phrase — Gone West —

The words of knights upon a holy quest,

Who saw the light and followed where it led.

Gone West! Scarred warrior hosts go marching by,

Their longing faces turned to greet the light

That glows and burns upon the western sky.

Leaving behind the darkness of the night,

The long day over and the battle won,

They seek for rest beyond the setting sun.