Classic Poem

This is a tale of the trenches
Told when the shadows creep
Over the bay and traverse
And poppies fall asleep.

When the men stand still to their rifles,
And the star-shells riot and flare,
Flung from the sandbag alleys,
Into the ghostly air.

They see in the growing grasses
That rise from the beaten zone
Their poor unforgotten comrades
Wasting in skin and bone,

And the grass creeps silently o'er them
Where comrade and foe are blent
In God's own peaceful churchyard
When the fire of their might is spent.

But the men who stand to their rifles
See all the dead on the plain
Rise at the hour of midnight
To fight their battles again.

Each to his place in the combat,
All to the parts they played
With bayonet, brisk to its purpose,
Rifle and hand grenade.

Shadow races with shadow,
Steel comes quick on steel,
Swords that are deadly silent
And shadows that do not feel.

And shades recoil and recover
And fade away as they fall
In the space between the trenches.
And the watchers see it all.