"OH, I have known the dreams of youth . . . then what
⁠The dead, long, useless years gave promise of;
Remnants I'll humbly gift thee—all I've got,
⁠Which thy sweet thanks shall be the solace of."
Thus spake a restless mind all out of tune
⁠With souls and thoughts the world could offer him. . . .
Thou know'st he thanked Thee, God, for War's grand boon—
⁠The end, the glory, England proffered him.
The sorrow of his going matters not;
⁠Only the fierce high glow that in his heart
Lit up those remnants that a rifle shot
⁠Filched from an England who was grieved to part.
Alway, the nobleness that England gives
Rescinds her royal gift—so England lives!

⁠France.