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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537484" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Dead March</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">PLAY me a march, low-ton’d and slow—a march for a silent tread, <br>Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead, <br>Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead. <br> <br>Here for a while they smil’d and sang, alive in the interspace, <br>Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face,<br>Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace? <br> <br>Who shall assure us whence they come, or tell us the way they go? <br>Verily, life with them was joy, and, now they have left us, woe, <br>Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know. <br> <br>Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars.<br>How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars? <br>Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the well-seen bars? <br> <br>No, we are here, with feet unfix’d, but ever as if with lead <br>Drawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread, <br>Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead. <br> <br>No, we are here to wait, and work, and strain our banish’d eyes, <br>Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skies <br>Far from the reach of wingless men, and not to be scal’d with cries. <br> <br>No, we are here to bend our necks to the yoke of tyrant Time, <br>Welcoming all the gifts he gives us—glories of youth and prime, <br>Patiently watching them all depart as our heads grow white as rime. <br> <br>Why do we mourn the days that go—for the same sun shines each day, <br>Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may; <br>Sweet as the rose that died last year is the rose that is born to-day. <br> <br>Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls? <br>Never a head is dimm’d with gray but another is sunn’d with curls; <br>She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls. <br> <br>Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore; <br>Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unseen shore; <br>Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Cosmo+Monkhouse">William Cosmo Monkhouse</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=537484" data-title="A Dead March de William Cosmo Monkhouse" data-description="PLAY me a march, low-ton’d and slow—a march for a silent tread, 
Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead, 
Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead. 
 
Here for a while they smil’d and sang, ali..."></div>
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