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.