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How young, how gay they marcht away, All our village boys! Leaving us women here to pray, Drowning with their noise Misdoubt and eager mother-love, Hungry on the watch, As if they went to race and shove In a football match.

But my love chose in soberness Another way, his own; And God I bless that my distress Came suddenly down. A swift November night was falling In a windless air; I heard him indoors, heard him calling, And went, and he was there.