Poetry Archives

(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)

He was a soldier in that fight
 Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
 The stealthy foemen come.

Year in, year out, by day and night
 They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
 No fife was blown, and no drum beat.

In winter fog, in gathering mist
 The gray grim battle had its end—
And at the very last we knew
 His enemy had turned his friend.