The dying sunset’s slanting rays Incarnadine the soldier’s deed, His sturdy countenance betrays The bull-dog breed. Not his to shun the stubborn fight, The struggle against cruel odds. Alone, unaided—'tis a sight For men and gods. And now his back is bowed and bent, Now stooping, now erect he stands, And now the red life blood is sprent From both his hands. He takes his enemies on trust As one who sees and yet is blind, For every mutilating thrust Comes from behind. ’Tis done! The dying sun has gone, But triumph fills the soldier’s breast. He’s sewn his back brace button on While fully dressed.
This poem is in the public domain.