TO G. B. AND OTHERS. DIED IN ACTION.
How were we different from you
That we should live when you have died?
Wherein less worthy or less true
That unto us it was denied
So great a gift as life to give?
Wherein more immature than you
That you could die and we must live?
What was this secret that you kept
With destiny, this rendezvous,
This tryst towards which your spirits leapt
Exulting, all the battle through?
What jubilant intelligence
Was yours of some unguessed-of prize?
What high election bore you hence
Elated at your sacrifice?
O we who live must envious grow
To think on you—and you—and you—
We left back on that great plateau
Of passion and of faith, for to
That height again we may not climb
Who are descended into time.
Surely they were not born as we.
Rather they were a stalwart band
Of Heaven's youthful chivalry,
Who on that day when Fate's command
Went forth for war together stood
And heard, a shining brotherhood.
They saw the great arena set,
They saw the hosts of Ill deploy,—
What wonder that such hearts should fret
To be withholden from the joy
Of such a great arbitrament?
In them such jealousy was bred
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