John McCrae: The Unconquered Dead
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The Unconquered Dead

1872-1918


". . . defeated, with great loss."

Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame
         Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;
Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
         Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.

That day of battle in the dusty heat
         We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing
Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
         And we the harvest of their garnering.

Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swear
         By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill
Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare,
         Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.

We might have yielded, even we, but death
         Came for our helper; like a sudden flood
The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath
         We drew with gasps amid the choking blood.

The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon
         Sank to a foolish humming in our ears,
Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon
         Among the wheat fields of the olden years.

Before our eyes a boundless wall of red
         Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain!
Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead
         And rest came on us like a quiet rain.

Not we the conquered! Not to us the shame,
         Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease
To hold them ever; victors we, who came
         In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.


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DayPoems Poem No. 1095



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