  I Drum-taps! Drum-taps! Who is it marching, Marching past in the night? Ah, hark, Draw your curtains aside and see Endless ranks of the stars o'er-arching Endless ranks of an army marching, Marching out of the measureless dark, Marching away to Eternity. II See the gleam of the white sad faces Moving steadily, row on row, Marching away to their hopeless wars: Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching? Terrible, beautiful, human faces, Common as dirt, but softer than snow, Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars. III Is it the last rank readily, steadily Swinging away to the unknown doom? Ere you can think it, the drum-taps beat Louder, and here they come marching, marching, Great new level locked ranks of them readily Steadily swinging out of the gloom Marching endlessly down the street. IV Unregarded imperial regiments White from the roaring intricate places Deep in the maw of the world's machine, Well content, they are marching, marching, Unregarded imperial regiments, Ay, and there are those terrible faces Great world-heroes that might have been. V Hints and facets of One—the Eternal, Faces of grief, compassion and pain, Faces of hunger, faces of stone, Faces of love and of labour, marching, Changing facets of One—the Eternal, Streaming up thro' the wind and the rain, All together and each alone. VI You that doubt of the world's one Passion, You for whose science the stars are a-stray, Hark—to their orderly thunder-tread! These, in the night, with the stars are marching One to the end of the world's one Passion! You that have taken their Master away, Where have you laid Him, living or dead? VII You whose laws have hidden the One Law, You whose searchings obscure the goal, You whose systems from chaos begun, Chance-born, order-less, hark, they are marching, Hearts and tides and stars to the One Law, Measured and orderly, rhythmical, whole, Multitudinous, welded and one. VIII Split your threads of the seamless purple, Round you marches the world-wide host, Round your skies is the marching sky, Out in the night there's an army marching, Clothed with the night's own seamless purple, Making death for the King their boast, Marching straight to Eternity. IX What do you know of the shot-riddled banners Royally surging out of the gloom, You whose denials their souls despise? Out in the night they are marching, marching! Treasure your wisdom, and leave them their banners! Then—when you follow them down to the tomb Pray for one glimpse of the faith in their eyes. X Pray for one gleam of the white sad faces, Moving steadily, row on row, Marching away to their hopeless wars, Doomed to be trodden like dung, but marching, Terrible, beautiful human faces, Common as dirt, but softer than snow, Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars. XI What of the end? Will your knowledge escape it? What of the end of their dumb dark tears? You who mock at their faith and sing, Look, for their ragged old banners are marching Down to the end—will your knowledge escape it?— Down to the end of a few brief years! What should they care for the wisdom you bring. XII Count as they pass, their hundreds, thousands, Millions, marching away to a doom Younger than London, older that Tyre! Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching, Regiments, nations, empires, marching? Down thro' the jaws of a world-wide tomb, Doomed or ever they sprang from the mire! XIII Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, Trodden and kneaded as clay in the road, Father and little one, lover and friend, Out in the night they are marching, marching, Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, Bodies that bowed beneath Christ's own load, Love that—marched to the self-same end. XIV What of the end?—O, not of your glory, Not of your wealth or your fame that will live Half as long as this pellet of dust!— Out in the night there's an army marching, Nameless, noteless, empty of glory, Ready to suffer and die and forgive, Marching onward in simple trust, XV Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens Under the march of the terrible skies! Is it a jest for a God to play?— Whose is the jest of these millions marching, Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens, |
|
