Classic Poem

I HEARD a soldier sing some trifle
—Out in the sun-dried veldt alone:
He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle
—Idly, behind a stone.

“If after death, love, comes a waking,
—And in their camp so dark and still
The men of dust hear bugles, breaking
—Their halt upon the hill.

“To me the slow and silver pealing
—That then the last high trumpet pours
Shall softer than the dawn come stealing,
—For, with its call, comes yours!”

What grief of love had he to stifle,
—Basking so idly by his stone,
That grimy soldier with his rifle
—Out in the veldt, alone?