Still for a moment they stand, Massed on the sun's red death, A surge of bronze, too great, too grand, To endure for more than a breath. Only the billow and stream Of muscle and flank and mane Like darkling mountain-cataracts gleam Gripped in a Titan's rein. Once more from the furrow's end They wheel to the fallow lea, And down the muffled slope descend To the sleeping sea. And the fibrous knots of clay, And the sun-dried clots of earth Cleave, and the sunset cloaks the grey Waste and the stony dearth! O, broad and dusky and sweet, The sunset covers the weald; But my dreams are waving with golden wheat In a still strange field. My soul, my soul lies bare, Between the hills and the sea; Come, ploughman Death, with thy sharp ploughshare, And plough the field for me. THE BANNER Who in the gorgeous vanguard of the years With winged helmet glistens, let him hold Ere he pluck down this banner, crying "It bears An old device"; for, though it seem the old, It is the new! No rent shroud of the past, But its transfigured spirit that still shines Triumphantly before the foremost lines, Even from the first prophesying the last. And whoso dreams to pluck it down shall stand Bewildered, while the great host thunders by; And he shall show the rent shroud in his hand And "Lo, I lead the van!" he still shall cry; While leagues away, the spirit-banner shines Rushing in triumph before the foremost lines. RANK AND FILE I Drum-taps! Drum-taps! Who is it marching, Marching past in the night? Ah, hark, Draw your curtains aside and see Endless ranks of the stars o'er-arching Endless ranks of an army marching, Marching out of the measureless dark, Marching away to Eternity. II See the gleam of the white sad faces Moving steadily, row on row, Marching away to their hopeless wars: Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching? Terrible, beautiful, human faces, Common as dirt, but softer than snow, Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars. III Is it the last rank readily, steadily Swinging away to the unknown doom? Ere you can think it, the drum-taps beat Louder, and here they come marching, marching, Great new level locked ranks of them readily Steadily swinging out of the gloom Marching endlessly down the street. IV Unregarded imperial regiments White from the roaring intricate places Deep in the maw of the world's machine, Well content, they are marching, marching, Unregarded imperial regiments, Ay, and there are those terrible faces Great world-heroes that might have been. V