ALL night, from the quiet street
Comes the sound, without pause or break
Of the marching legions' feet
To listeners lying awake.
Their faces may none descry;
Night folds them close like a pall;
But the feet of them passing by
Tramp on the hearts of all.
What comforting makes them strong?
What trust and what fears have they
That march without music or song
To death at the end of the way?
What faith in our victory?
What hopes that beguile and bless?
What heaven-sent hilarity?
What mirth and what weariness?
What valour from vanished years
In the heart of youth confined?
What wellsprings of unshed tears
For the loves they leave behind?
No sleep, my soul to befriend;
No voice, neither answering light!
But darkness that knows no end
And feet going by in the night.