Alone <br />I sit in the dusk and see <br />Surely the living faces, dear to me, <br />Of comrades who have thrown <br />All that they had, the fruit of all desire, <br />Upon an altar fire. <br /> <br />They heard, <br />Above all clamour of the crowd, <br />The music of their own hearts throbbing loud <br />Until the air was stirred <br />Into a summoning harmony; and so <br />We saw them rise, and go. <br /> <br />The sound, <br />That love set ringing in those years <br />Of agony, exultation, voiceless fears, <br />And hopes now underground, <br />Shall not be silenced; it is thrilling yet, <br />And we shall not forget. <br /> <br />But clear <br />The mellow tone of mingled notes, <br />Triumph and sorrow made one spirit, floats <br />To my prophetic ear; <br />That is their music echoing, echoing still <br />From our remembering hill.<br /><br />John Le Gay Brereton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-carillon/
