Kandahar.

For southern wind and east wind meet Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, England with bare and bloody feet Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

O lonely Himalayan height, Grey pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight Our wingèd dogs of Victory?

The almond-groves of Samarcand, Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand The grave white-turbaned merchants go:

p. 10And on from thence to Ispahan, The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan Brings cedar wood and vermilion;

p. 10

And that dread city of Cabool Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full With water for the noonday heat:

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar A little maid Circassian Is led, a present from the Czar Unto some old and bearded khan,—

Here have our wild war-eagles flown, And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; But the sad dove, that sits alone In England—she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean To greet her love with love-lit eyes: Down in some treacherous black ravine, Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see The lingering wistful children wait To climb upon their father’s knee; And in each house made desolate

p. 11Pale women who have lost their lord Will kiss the relics of the slain— Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—  Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

p. 11

For not in quiet English fields Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, Where we might deck their broken shields With all the flowers the dead love best.

For some are by the Delhi walls, And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

O wandering graves! O restless sleep! O silence of the sunless day! O still ravine! O stormy deep! Give up your prey! Give up your prey!

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