O, broad and dusky and sweet, The sunset covers the weald; But my dreams are waving with golden wheat In a still strange field.
My soul, my soul lies bare, Between the hills and the sea; Come, ploughman Death, with thy sharp ploughshare, And plough the field for me.
Who in the gorgeous vanguard of the years With wingèd helmet glistens, let him hold Ere he pluck down this banner, crying "It bears An old device"; for, though it seem the old,
It is the new! No rent shroud of the past, But its transfigured spirit that still shines Triumphantly before the foremost lines, Even from the first prophesying the last.
And whoso dreams to pluck it down shall stand Bewildered, while the great host thunders by; And he shall show the rent shroud in his hand And "Lo, I lead the van!" he still shall cry;
While leagues away, the spirit-banner shines Rushing in triumph before the foremost lines.
Drum-taps! Drum-taps! Who is it marching, Marching past in the night? Ah, hark, Draw your curtains aside and see Endless ranks of the stars o'er-arching Endless ranks of an army marching, Marching out of the measureless dark, Marching away to Eternity.
See the gleam of the white sad faces Moving steadily, row on row, Marching away to their hopeless wars: Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching? Terrible, beautiful, human faces, Common as dirt, but softer than snow, Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars.
Is it the last rank readily, steadily Swinging away to the unknown doom? Ere you can think it, the drum-taps beat Louder, and here they come marching, marching, Great new level locked ranks of them readily Steadily swinging out of the gloom Marching endlessly down the street.
Unregarded imperial regiments White from the roaring intricate places Deep in the maw of the world's machine, Well content, they are marching, marching, Unregarded imperial regiments, Ay, and there are those terrible faces Great world-heroes that might have been.
Hints and facets of One--the Eternal, Faces of grief, compassion and pain, Faces of hunger, faces of stone, Faces of love and of labour, marching, Changing facets of One--the Eternal, Streaming up thro' the wind and the rain, All together and each alone.
You that doubt of the world's one Passion, You for whose science the stars are a-stray, Hark--to their orderly thunder-tread! These, in the night, with the stars are marching One to the end of the world's one Passion! You that have taken their Master away, Where have you laid Him, living or dead?