THE MARCH

I heard a voice that cried, “Make way for those who died!”

And all the coloured crowd like ghosts at morning fled;

And down the waiting road, rank after rank there strode,

In mute and measured march a hundred thousand dead.

A hundred thousand dead, with firm and noiseless tread,

All shadowy-grey yet solid, with faces grey and ghast,

And by the house they went, and all their brows were bent

Straight forward; and they passed, and passed, and passed, and passed.

But O there came a place, and O there came a face,

That clenched my heart to see it, and sudden turned my way;

And in the Face that turned I saw two eyes that burned,

Never-forgotten eyes, and they had things to say.

Like desolate stars they shone one moment, and were gone,

And I sank down and put my arms across my head,

And felt them moving past, nor looked to see the last,

In steady silent march, our hundred thousand dead.