The Unconquered Dead
".
.
.
defeated,
with
great
loss."
Not
we
the
conquered!
Not
to
us
the
blame
Of
them
that
flee,
of
them
that
basely
yield;
Nor
ours
the
shout
of
victory,
the
fame
Of
them
that
vanquish
in
a
stricken
field.
That
day
of
battle
in
the
dusty
heat
We
lay
and
heard
the
bullets
swish
and
sing
Like
scythes
amid
the
over-ripened
wheat,
And
we
the
harvest
of
their
garnering.
Some
yielded,
No,
not
we!
Not
we,
we
swear
By
these
our
wounds;
this
trench
upon
the
hill
Where
all
the
shell-strewn
earth
is
seamed
and
bare,
Was
ours
to
keep;
and
lo!
we
have
it
still.
We
might
have
yielded,
even
we,
but
death
Came
for
our
helper;
like
a
sudden
flood
The
crashing
darkness
fell;
our
painful
breath
We
drew
with
gasps
amid
the
choking
blood.
The
roar
fell
faint
and
farther
off,
and
soon
Sank
to
a
foolish
humming
in
our
ears,
Like
crickets
in
the
long,
hot
afternoon
Among
the
wheat
fields
of
the
olden
years.
Before
our
eyes
a
boundless
wall
of
red
Shot
through
by
sudden
streaks
of
jagged
pain!
Then
a
slow-gathering
darkness
overhead
And
rest
came
on
us
like
a
quiet
rain.
Not
we
the
conquered!
Not
to
us
the
shame,
Who
hold
our
earthen
ramparts,
nor
shall
cease
To
hold
them
ever;
victors
we,
who
came
In
that
fierce
moment
to
our
honoured
peace.
