XIV

What of the end?—O, not of your glory,

Not of your wealth or your fame that will live

Half as long as this pellet of dust!—

Out in the night there's an army marching,

Nameless, noteless, empty of glory,

Ready to suffer and die and forgive,

Marching onward in simple trust,

[Pg 10]

XV

Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens

Under the march of the terrible skies!

Is it a jest for a God to play?—

Whose is the jest of these millions marching,

Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens,

Waving their voicelessly grand good-byes,

Secretly trying, sometimes, to pray.

XVI

Dare you dream their trust in Eternity

Broken, O you to whom prayers are vain,

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