  The large report of fame I lack, And shining clasps and crimson scars, For I have held my bivouac Alone amid the untroubled stars. My battle-field has known no dawn Beclouded by a thousand spears; I’ve been no mounting tyrant’s pawn To buy his glory with my tears. It never seemed a noble thing Some little leagues of land to gain From broken men, nor yet to fling Abroad the thunderbolts of pain. Yet I have felt the quickening breath As peril heavy peril kissed— My weapon was a little faith, And fear was my antagonist. Not a brief hour of cannonade, But many days of bitter strife, Till God of His great pity laid Across my brow the leaves of life. |
|
