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282 With the heather that twitched in the wind;

But he looked on indifferent to sights such as these,

Unswayed by love, friendship, home joy or home sorrow,

And wondered to what he would march on the morrow.

The crazed household clock with its whirr

Rang midnight within as he stood,

He heard the low sighing of her

Who had striven from his birth for his good;

But he still only asked the spring starlight, the breeze,

What great thing or small thing his history would borrow

From that Game with Death he would play on the morrow.

When the heath wore the robe of late summer,

And the fuchsia-bells, hot in the sun,

Hung red by the door, a quick comer

Brought tidings that marching was done

For him who had joined in that game overseas

Where Death stood to win; though his memory would borrow

A brightness therefrom not to die on the morrow.