Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/16

x The bows beside their hands are strung; The blue steel glitters, bare of sheath: 'Tis wonder tired Life drags among So many ways to Death!

They may not whisper, one to one, The stories of their fancied fall: The words that ring beneath the sun Would faint in such a pall.

In silence, man by man, they reach For cup, for arrow, or for sword, And still the grey world fills the breach Each leaves beside the board.

W. H. OGILVIE.