Classic Poem

I

The Poet.

I have been dead and under the sod so long!
Oh, to break forth, arise,
Resume the song,
And just be again beneath the old blue skies!

II

The Soldier.

'Tis weary here waiting alone!
This darkness is deaf and dumb,
And I lie here like a stone.
Above is there yet some light?
Do the highways hum?
Here never a glimmer and never a sound bath come —
Save once a drum
Of soldiers that went to fight!
O God! to swing off with them,
Faring afoot with them,
On to the charge and the glory of War!
Or to gallop ahead of them,
Victory-sped of them —
That were worth waiting and suffering for!
Never again,
O Marching Men,
Shall we shout together the songs of camp!
No banner can beck, no bright sword flash and wave
Here in the grave,
In the grave that is dark and damp.
— That were worth all, did I think, did I say?
All save their forgetting! But he is a knave
That will drain his draught and grumble that he must pay!

III

The Priest.

How long is it now, I wonder —
A thousand years, at least,
Here the dark vault under,
Feet to the East,
Supposed to be Paradise-walking, a purged priest!
Well, none of them see me, thank heaven,
As they pass me here on the hill —
So long as they live they're shriven,
And when they come here — they are still.