Classic Poem

I

H E heard the fifes at the end of the street,
He heard the marching of thousands of feet;
The rush and the murmur, the beat of the drum,
The sudden strange delirium;
He saw the gold banners and flying flags,
The rapturous faces of lads and hags;
The light romance, and the gleam of it all,
The wonder, the magic, the dream of it all.

But he did not see the lonely campfires burning
On distant fields; and he forgot the yearning
Of aching hearts when nights were filled with dread;
He did not see the piteous, helpless dead.
He did not think of sorrow and alarms,
The empty years that mocked his empty arms;
He did not think of many a blood-stained hill. ...
Yet had he thought, he would have followed still!

II

She heard the story — old as the years;
She waited through nights of girlhood fears
For the dream to come, as come it must,
And make a glory of the dust.
She said, " No love shall be like ours —
Life's roadway bright with eternal flowers. "
She saw the beauty, the light of it all,
And the terrible, splendid might of it all.

But she did not know of days and nights of weeping,
Heart-breaking absence and slow shadows creeping
Around her couch to hide Love's blazing light.
She did not know Love has its day — and night.
And she forgot the thorns amid the roses,
Forgot that sometimes Love's book softly closes;
She did not know Love's sorrows blind and kill. ...
Yet had she known, she would have followed still!