The Unconquered Dead

". . . defeated, with great loss."                         Not we the conquered!    Not to us the blame                          Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;                         Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame                          Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.                         That day of battle in the dusty heat                          We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing                         Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,                          And we the harvest of their garnering.                         Some yielded, No, not we!    Not we, we swear                          By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill                         Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare,                          Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.                         We might have yielded, even we, but death                          Came for our helper; like a sudden flood                         The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath                          We drew with gasps amid the choking blood.                         The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon                          Sank to a foolish humming in our ears,                         Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon                          Among the wheat fields of the olden years.                         Before our eyes a boundless wall of red                          Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain!                         Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead                          And rest came on us like a quiet rain.                         Not we the conquered!    Not to us the shame,                          Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease                         To hold them ever; victors we, who came                          In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.