Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Foward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said; Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
'Foward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them, Cannon to the left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them, Cannon to the left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, Those that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!
Exposure
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east wind that knive us... Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent... Low, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient... Worried by silence, sentires whisper, curious, nervous, But nothing happens.
Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire, Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. What are we doing here?
The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow... We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, But nothing happens.
Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the airr that shudders black with snow, With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, We watch them wandering up and down the wind's Nonchalance, But nothing happens.
Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces - We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, Deep into grassier ditched. So we drowse, sun dozed, Littered with blossoms trickeling where the balckbird fusses. Is it that we are dying?
Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed, - We turn back to our dying.
Since we belive not otherwise can kind fires burn; Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid; Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, For love of God seems dying.
Tonight, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place: and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead, short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders Fields
Take up our quarrel with the foe, To you from failing hands we throw, The torch; be yours to hold it high If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders Field
Captain John McCrae CEF (1919)
Email: chjjj@aol.com
