DREAMERS
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oldiers are citizens of death's gray land,Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows;In the great hour of destiny they stand,Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.Soldiers are sworn to action; they must winSome flaming, fatal climax with their lives.Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns beginThey think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,And mocked by hopeless longing to regainBank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,And going to the office in the train.
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