Here lies a clerk who half his life had
                            spent
                            Toiling at ledgers in a city grey,
                            Thinking that so his days would drift
                            away
                            With no lance broken in life's
                            tournament:
                            Yet ever 'twixt the books and his
                            bright eyes
                            The gleaming eagles of the legions
                            came,
                            And horsemen, charging under
                            phantom skies,
                            Went thundering past beneath the
                            oriflamme.

                            And now those waiting dreams are
                            satisfied;
                            From twilight to the halls of dawn he
                            went;
                            His lance is broken; but he lies
                            content
                            With that high hour, in which he lived
                            and died.
                            And falling thus he wants no
                            recompense,
                            Who found his battle in the last
                            resort;
                            Nor needs he any hearse to bear him
                            hence,
                            Who goes to join the men of
                            Agincourt.

                              By:  Herbert Asquith
                                   May, 1915