There's a blurr'd roll of drumbeats. The soft south wind straying In to fresh whitewashed walls, in thro' clean curtains swaying; Stealing warm over birdbills, honeysuckles a-Maying, Over piled baskets swinging from plied knockers' playing; Past peonies, trilliums, syringas, outstaying The first flush of spring; in from gardens fresh growing, Clean swept; On where, close-ranged, the head-stones are showing Enwreathed and enshrined in love's full-tide outflowing, Starr'd with flags under battle-shot, stained banners streaming Down the long aisles' new shadows—the enfilading fifes screaming To drumbeats. And slow feet, as the last salute flashes, Step softly—rapt dreamers—down the ranked graves' heal'd gashes, Back with Duty's shocked call while the war-fury lashes— The Call's cause, the conflict, war's upper and nether; The Call's cause and Fame's upmost, or ungratefulest nether,— With the futile fife's screaming, the drumbeat's worn leather, Halting back down the long dusty street—back together, With the wearisome years, thro' the evening, together, With the sigh of the southwind, the balm of God's weather. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONLY A WOMAN by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK FABLES: 1ST SER. 5. THE WILD BOAR AND THE RAM by JOHN GAY ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS A DREAM OF DEATH by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS RIDDLE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD DAWN AT LEXINGTON by KATHARINE LEE BATES THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 25, ASKING FOR HER HEART (3) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |