The Young Lieutenant

The young lieutenant's face was grey.     As came the day.     The watchers saw it lifting white     And ghostlike from the pool of night.     His eyes were wide and strangely lit.     Each thought in that unhallowed pit:     I, too, may seem like one who dies     With wide, set eyes.     He stood so still we thought it death,     For through the breath     Of reeking shell we came, and fire,     To hell, unlit, of blood and mire.     Tianced in a chill delirium     We wondered, though our lips were dumb     What precious thing his fingers pressed     Against his breast.     His left hand clutched so lovingly     What none might see.     All bloodless were his lips beneath     The straight, white, rigid clip of teeth.     His eyes turned to the distance dim;     Our sleepless eyes were all on him.     He stirred; we aped a phantom cheer.     The hour was here!     The young lieutenant blew his call.     God keep us all!     He whispered softly. Out he led;     And over the vale of twisted dead,     Close holding that dear thing, he went.     On through the storm we followed, bent     To pelt of iron and the rain     Of flame and pain.     His wan face like a lodestar glowed     Down that black road,     And deep among the torn and slain     We drove, and twenty times again     He squared us to the charging hordes.     His word was like a hundred swords.     And still a hand the treasure pressed     Against his breast.     Our gain we held. Up flamed the sun.     The ridge is won,     He calmly said, and, with a sigh,     Thank God, a man is free to die!     He smiled at this, and so he passed.     His secret prize we knew at last,     For through his hand the jewel's red,     Fierce lustre bled.