The 

 Human 

 Harvest 



Here have our wild war-eagles flown, 

 And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; 



But the sad dove, that sits alone 

 In England — she hath no delight. 



In vain the laughing girl will lean 

 To greet her love with love-lit eyes; 



Down in some treacherous black ravine, 

 Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. 



And many a moon and sun will see 

 The lingering wistful children wait 



To climb upon their father's knee; 

 And in each house made desolate, 



Pale women who have lost their lord 

 Will kiss the relics of the slain — 



Some tarnished epaulet — some sword — 

 Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. 



For not in quiet English fields 



Are these, our brothers, lain to rest. 



Where we might deck their broken shields 

 With all the flowers the dead love best. 



[96] 



For some are by the Delhi walls. 

 And many in the Afghan land. 



And many where the Ganges falls 



Through seven mouths of shifting sand. 



