With younger men he takes his stand, <br />To the recruiting-sergeant nigh, <br />Sees others chosen: lifts a hand <br />In hopes to catch the unwilling eye, <br />While his mood turns to black despair <br />Heedless of those that grin and stare. <br /> <br />Careless of jibe and jeer he waits, <br />Thrusts himself where the eye must fall, <br />A voice, indifferent as Fate's, <br />Orders 'Stand back!' and that is all. <br />'Too old!' He steps down to make room <br />For younger men more slow to come. <br /> <br />Too old at fifty! But he feels <br />There's lots of fighting in him yet. <br />Some hint of glory lifts, reveals, <br />In the smirched days he would forget. <br />They might blot out the shameful past <br />If he fell fighting at the last. <br /> <br />If he could meet them, one poor rag <br />Of glory cast about his shame -- <br />One rag of glory! England's flag <br />Wrapping in splendour his poor frame! <br />And all the people he once knew <br />Saying 'He died as white men do!' <br /> <br />Mirage! Such dreams as come with sleep! <br />And he is innocent and small, <br />Running through orchard grasses deep <br />To his dead mother's tender call; <br />Before he broke her heart and bowed <br />His father's comely head and proud. <br /> <br />There's nothing left to hope for more. <br />Poor fool, to think he might atone! <br />He sees in a mist a fast-shut door. <br />Shambling and blear-eyed and alone <br />He goes, and darkness covers him, <br />Who saw the glory and the gleam.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/unfit-2/
