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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408818" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Firing-Line</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">They are creeping on through the cornfields yet, and they clamber amongst the rocks,<br>Ere they rush to stab with the bayonet and smash with the rifle-stocks.<br>And many are wounded, many are dead—some reel as if drunk with wine,<br>And fling them down on a blood-stained bed, and sleep in the firing-line. <br>And they dream, perhaps, of the days shut back, while the shrapnel shrieks and crashes,<br>And field-guns hammer and rifles crack, and the blood of a comrade splashes.<br>In horrible shambles they rest a while from murder by right divine;<br>They curse or jest, and they frown or smile—and they dream in the firing-line. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the dreadful din of a ghastly fight they are shooting, murdering, men;<br>In the smothering silence of ghastly peace we murder with tongue and pen.<br>Where is heard the tap of the typewriter—where the track of reform they mine—<br>Where they stand to the frame or the linotype—we are all in the firingline. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Weary and parched in the world-old war we are fighting with quivering nerves;<br>The dead are our fathers who charged before, and the children are our reserves.<br>In the world-old war, with the world-old wrongs that shall last while the stars still shine,<br>My comrades and I, who would sing their songs, are all in the firing-line. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are some of us cowards who hug the ground, and some of us reckless who jest;<br>And some of us careless who slumber sound, and some of us weary who rest.<br>There are some of us dreamers, whose beds seem soft, and O heart! O friend of mine!<br>The brightest and bravest of earth too oft lie drunk in the firing-line. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the sleeper may wake ere the fort we storm, and the coward be first to dare,<br>And the weak grow strong, and the drunkard reform, and the dreamer strike hardest there.<br>God give me strength in my country’s need, though shame and disgrace be mine,<br>And death be certain, to rise and lead when we charge from the firing-line.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408818" data-title="The Firing-Line de Henry Lawson" data-description="They are creeping on through the cornfields yet, and they clamber amongst the rocks,
Ere they rush to stab with the bayonet and smash with the rifle-stocks.
And many are wounded, many are dead—some reel as if drunk with wine,
And fling them down..."></div>
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