Sonnet of Brotherhood
Garrisons pent up in a little fort,
With foes who do but wait on every side,
Knowing the time must come when they shall ride
Triumphant over those trapped, and make sport
Of them; when they within know very short
Is now their hour, and no aid can betide:
Such men as these not quarrel and divide,
But, friend and foe, are friends in their hard sort.
And if such things be such—oh, men!—then what
Of these beleaguered victims—— this, our race—
Betrayed alike by Fate's gigantic plot,
Here, in this far-pitched, perilous, hostile place,
This solitary, hard-assaulted spot,
Fixed at the friendless, utter verge of space?