So, we are dreamers; but our dreams are cast Henceforward in a more heroic mold; We have kept faith with our immortal past. Knights--we have found the lady of our love; Minstrels--have heard great harmonies above The lyrics that enraptured us of old. The dawn’s aglow with luster of the sun O love, O burning passion, that has made Our day illustrious till its hours are done-- Fire our dull hearts, that, in our sun’s eclipse, When Death stoops low to kiss us on the lips, He still may find us singing, unafraid. One thing we know, that love so greatly spent Dies not when lovers die: From hand to hand We pass the torch and perish--well content, If in dark years to come our countrymen Feel the divine flame leap in them again, And so remember us and understand. “BLIGHTY” AND “GONE WEST” British soldiers in France have developed a terminology that is plain to them, but confusing to civilians. They speak of “Blighty,” for example, and of “Gone West.” These two terms express hopes--Blighty meaning home; in common acceptance, home for rest and recuperation. “Gone West” means gone from the east with its conflict to the refuge of death, where peace waits in the glory of sunset. “Blighty” is of Hindu origin. British officers in South Africa who had served in India used the word, which is an Anglicized form of the Indian word “vilayti,” meaning European. Englishmen being about the only Europeans the natives knew, its application narrowed down to England only; and the army fell into a way of using it as a synonym of home. When the troops from India came into action early in the war, their wounded were sent to the nearest English great hospital, at Brighton, just across the channel. The consonance of Brighton and vilayti or Blighty was so close that these men used their own word as a matter of course, and in this way it floated into general use. It has acquired a new sense of late. Casualties intermediate to those too severe for removal and those that can be treated in field hospitals, are sent to England--to Blighty--and are themselves called Blighty, meaning wounds that get a man home. Lieut. Siegfried Sassoon has woven the idea into a plaintively whimsical bit of verse which he calls BLIGHTY He woke: the clank and racket of the train Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain, At last he lifted his bewildered eyes And blinked, and rolled them sidelong; hills and skies. Heavily wooded, hot with August haze, And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze, Acres of harvest. Feebly now he drags Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare, To calm and brightness, havens of sweet air.