Poetry Archives

Our game was his but yesteryear;
  We wished him back; we could not know
The self-same hour we missed him here
  He led the line that broke the foe.

Blood-red behind our guarded posts
  Sank as of old and dying day;
The battle ceased; the mingled hosts
  Weary and cheery went their way:

“To-morrow well may bring,” we said,
  “As fair a fight, as clear a sun.”
Dear lad, before the world was sped,
  For evermore thy goal was won.