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To The Fallen.

You did not count the chances,
You only heard the call; From plains, where sunlight dances,
From hills where shadows fall, You came straight-limbed as lances,
And steady-eyed and tall.

To you a white god beckoned,
Who held a shining sword, You were not men who reckoned
What best you could afford; One gift, that brooked no second,
You made with glad accord.

Tear-Wearied eyes are sleeping
In many a home to-night, For you the women's weeping,
Oh! men, with honour white, Whose souls are in God's keeping.—
The fallen in the fight.

—Will Lawson

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