A MONTH ago they marched to fight
Away 'twixt the woodland and the sown,
I walked that lonely road to-night
And yet I could not feel alone.
The voice of the wind called shrill and high
Like a bugle band of ghosts,
And the restless leaves that shuffled by
Seemed the tread of the phantom hosts.
Mayhap when the shadows gather round
And the low skies lower with rain,
The dead that rot upon outland ground
March down the road again.