Classic Poem

You heard the thunder of the guns—every note
Went crashing through your souls like a crime;
But the rattle in the dying hero's throat,
You heard alone, nor thought your task sublime,
To stalk death bravely in corridors of doom—
White ministrants of heaven, beating back the gloom.

Not ours to spread the splendour of your name;
But they who knew your gentle touch on earth
Shall thrill the heavens with brightness of your fame,
And tell successive ages of your worth.
Your wondrous faithfulness through strain and strife
Was a glimpse of matchless glory that made death seem life.