These, in the day when heaven was falling, The hour when earth's foundations fled, Followed their mercenary calling And took their wages and are dead. The British regulars who made the retreat from Mons, beginning August 24, 1914.

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.

Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.

Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.

Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.

They say my verse is sad: no wonder; Its narrow measure spans Tears of eternity, and sorrow, Not mine. but man's.