The New Zealander

All was still as evening came With a whisper, sheathed in flame, And the battlefield grew still From the Valley to the Hill.

Just beyond the ripples' reach He was lying on the beach, Dreaming half of things at home, Mixing dreams with light and foam.

Three days he had smelt the dead, Looked on black blood and on red, Gripped and lain, and cursed and hated, Feared, exulted, prayed, and waited.

From the dawn till dusk was dim All the world had spied on him; And the wind that sighed so low Seemed the footstep of his foe,

And at night the fireflies dancing Were the light of men advancing. Swift his hands. His brain was cool. "Hell," he said, "poor Tom's at school."

Then he rested on the beach Just beyond the ripples' reach, Home and sunset in his dream Till the shrapnel's quicker gleam

Found his heart, and found his head— Found him dreaming, left him dead. And they buried him at night With men fallen in the fight.

So he fought and went away With the glory of the day, And no hatred in his heart When the great ways met to part.