We are the stricken—those who died
But did not fall. Once, side by side,
We burned and bled—
We are the countless standing dead.
Not like the Capuchins, cowl-topped,
Dried in their cerements, stiff-propped
And postured in the charnel gloom
Of some deep-caverned chapel-room,
But in the full, white light of day
We stand—gaunt, naked, gray—
Close-locked in death,
Yet ever with the breath
Of life around us. We can see
The quickened green of each young tree,
Their bobbing heads
Upcrowding at our feet; and beds
Of paint-brush and the blue
Of lupine. Years renew
Their seasons—dust and rain and snow.
For us dawns glow,
And setting suns transfuse our cold
And ashen palor into gold;
Moons rise, and then
We all are turned to ghosts again.
[Illustration:
_We are the stricken—those who died
But did not fall. Once, side by side,
We burned and bled—
We are the countless standing dead._]
We look upon some mighty fir,
Remembering ourselves that were;
It was a lightning flash that came,
And flame
Encircled us. All night
The sky was crimson with our light.
Day dawned upon the hills—the sun rose red,
It saw the dying and the dead,
The vast, uncounted dead—and over all,
A smoky pall
That wavered in the wind. We did not fall—
We did not fall, like some—magnificent in strength
Who measured out their length,
Still smouldering, upon the ash-heaped mat
Of earth—we were not burned enough for that.
Years passed
Our dried bark cracked—at last
It flaked and fell. In high distress
We were—gaunt in our nakedness.
So have we stood—
The gray ghost-brotherhood,
We who have burned and bled
But did not fall—the standing dead.