English poem
The Army of the Dead
by Barry Pain (1864–1928)
I DREAMED that overhead I saw in twilight grey The Army of the Dead Marching upon its way, So still and passionless, With faces so serene, That scarcely could one guess Such men in war had been.
No mark of hurt they bore, Nor smoke, nor bloody stain; Nor suffered any more Famine, fatigue, or pain; Nor any lust of hate Now lingered in their eyes— Who have fulfilled their fate, Have lost all enmities.
A new and greater pride So quenched the pride of race That foes marched side by side Who once fought face to face. That ghostly army's plan Knows but one race, one rod— All nations there are Man, And the one King is God.
No longer on their ears The bugle's summons falls; Beyond these jangled spheres The Archangel's trumpet calls; And by that trumpet led Far up the exalted sky The Army of the Dead Goes by, and still goes by— Look upward, standing mute; Salute.