The young lieutenant's face was grey. <br />As came the day. <br />The watchers saw it lifting white <br />And ghostlike from the pool of night. <br />His eyes were wide and strangely lit. <br />Each thought in that unhallowed pit: <br />“I, too, may seem like one who dies <br />With wide, set eyes.” <br /> <br />He stood so still we thought it death, <br />For through the breath <br />Of reeking shell we came, and fire, <br />To hell, unlit, of blood and mire. <br />Tianced in a chill delirium <br />We wondered, though our lips were dumb <br />What precious thing his fingers pressed <br />Against his breast. <br /> <br />His left hand clutched so lovingly <br />What none might see. <br />All bloodless were his lips beneath <br />The straight, white, rigid clip of teeth. <br />His eyes turned to the distance dim; <br />Our sleepless eyes were all on him. <br />He stirred; we aped a phantom cheer. <br />The hour was here! <br /> <br />The young lieutenant blew his call. <br />“God keep us all!” <br />He whispered softly. Out he led; <br />And over the vale of twisted dead, <br />Close holding that dear thing, he went. <br />On through the storm we followed, bent <br />To pelt of iron and the rain <br />Of flame and pain. <br /> <br />His wan face like a lodestar glowed <br />Down that black road, <br />And deep among the torn and slain <br />We drove, and twenty times again <br />He squared us to the charging hordes. <br />His word was like a hundred swords. <br />And still a hand the treasure pressed <br />Against his breast. <br /> <br />Our gain we held. Up flamed the sun. <br />“The ridge is won,” <br />He calmly said, and, with a sigh, <br />“Thank God, a man is free to die!” <br />He smiled at this, and so he passed. <br />His secret prize we knew at last, <br />For through his hand the jewel's red, <br />Fierce lustre bled.<br /><br />Edward George Dyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-young-lieutenant/
