THE crowd huzzas, the music madly plays; 'Tis meet, for lo! it is the day of days -- The home-returning heroes come: a cry Of welcome should be lifted to the sky And flowers strew the people-trampled ways. The drums beat martially; with rhythmic beat The steps resound along the gaping street. Hark, what acclaim! And how the folk do press To see, to briefly touch, the very dress Of those who dared the death, when Life is sweet! But stay! where joy is general, where the sound Of jubilant voices rends the air around, Why is one group so silent in its place, With war's impassioned image face to face? Wherefore those eyes cast nunlike on the ground? Who are these hangers-back, these dark-robed ones? They are the mothers who are reft of sons; The wives whose dearest lie all uncaressed Afar, with vital stains on brow or breast; The children orphaned at the mouths of guns. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH by WILLIAM COWPER THE PRIESTHOOD by GEORGE HERBERT THE IMMORTALS by ISAAC ROSENBERG IMAGES: 3 by RICHARD ALDINGTON THE IRISH MOTHER IN THE PENAL DAYS by JOHN BANIM |