Youth's Own

Out of the fields I see them pass,
Youth's own battalion —
Like moonlight ghosting over grass,
To dark oblivion.

They have a wintry march to go —
Bugle and fife and drum!
With music softer than the snow-
Fall, flurrying, they come!

They have a solemn tryst to keep
Out on the starry heath;
To fling them down, and sleep and sleep
Beyond Reveille — Death!

Since Youth has vanished from our eyes,
Who of us glad can be?
Who will be grieving, when he dies
And leaves this Calvary?
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