". . . defeated, with great loss." <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame <br /> Of them that flee, of them that basely yield; <br />Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame <br /> Of them that vanquish in a stricken field. <br /> <br />That day of battle in the dusty heat <br /> We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing <br />Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat, <br /> And we the harvest of their garnering. <br /> <br />Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swear <br /> By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill <br />Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare, <br /> Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still. <br /> <br />We might have yielded, even we, but death <br /> Came for our helper; like a sudden flood <br />The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath <br /> We drew with gasps amid the choking blood. <br /> <br />The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon <br /> Sank to a foolish humming in our ears, <br />Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon <br /> Among the wheat fields of the olden years. <br /> <br />Before our eyes a boundless wall of red <br /> Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain! <br />Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead <br /> And rest came on us like a quiet rain. <br /> <br />Not we the conquered! Not to us the shame, <br /> Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease <br />To hold them ever; victors we, who came <br /> In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.<br /><br />John McCrae<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-unconquered-dead/
