"You! What d' you mean by this?" I rapped. "You dare come on parade like this?" "Please, sir, it's -" "'Old yer mouth," the sergeant snapped. "I take 'is name, sir?" - "Please, and then dismiss." Some days "confined to camp" he got For being "dirty on parade." He told me afterwards, the damned spot Was blood, his own. "Well, blood is dirt," I said. "Blood's dirt," he laughed, looking away Far off to where his wound had bled And almost merged for ever into clay. "The world is washing out its stains," he said. "It doesn't like our cheeks so red. Young blood's its great objection. But when we're duly white-washed, being dead, The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: MRS. GREGORY WENNER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS EPITAPH: FOR MY GRANDMOTHER by COUNTEE CULLEN THE DESERTED PLANTATION by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR GREENWOOD CEMETERY by CRAMMOND KENNEDY CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT by ROSE HARTWICK THORPE A BATTLE BALLAD TO GENERAL J.E. JOHNSTON by FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR OF MAIDENS' PRAISE: AN INVOCATION by SAINT ALDHELM EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 23. SOONER WOUNDED THAN CURED by PHILIP AYRES |