WHO recalls the twilight and the rangèd tents in order | |
| (Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air?) | |
| And the clink of iron teacups and the piteous, noble laughter, | |
| And the faces of the Sisters with the dust upon their hair? | |
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| (Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in our nostrils, | 5 |
| Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by— | |
| Let us now remember many honourable women, | |
| Such as bade us turn again when we were like to die.) | |
| |
| Who recalls the morning and the thunder through the foothills | |
| (Tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains?) | 10 |
| And the sun-scarred Red-Cross coaches creeping guarded to the culvert, | |
| And the faces of the Sisters looking gravely from the trains? | |
| |
| (When the days were torment and the nights were clouded terror, | |
| When the Powers of Darkness had dominion on our soul— | |
| When we fled consuming through the Seven Hells of Fever, | 15 |
| These put out their hands to us and healed and made us whole.) | |
| |
| Who recalls the midnight by the bridge’s wrecked abutment | |
| (Autumn rain that rattled like a Maxim on the tin?) | |
| And the lightning-dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons, | |
| And the faces of the Sisters as they bore the wounded in? | 20 |
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| (Till the pain was merciful and stunned us into silence— | |
| When each nerve cried out on God that made the misused clay; | |
| When the Body triumphed and the last poor shame departed— | |
| These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away.) | |
| |
| Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market | 25 |
| (Blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies?) | |
| And the footsore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness, | |
| And the faces of the Sisters and the glory in their eyes? | |
| |
| (Bold behind the battle, in the open camp all-hallowed, | |
| Patient, wise, and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town, | 30 |
| These endured unresting till they rested from their labours— | |
| Little wasted bodies, ah, so light to lower down!) | |
| |
| Yet their graves are scattered and their names are clean forgotten, | |
| Earth shall not remember, but the Waiting Angel knows | |
| Them that died at Uitvlugt when the plague was on the city— | 35 |
| Her that fell at Simon’s Town in service on our foes. | |
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| Wherefore we they ransomed, while the breath is in our nostrils, | |
| Now and not hereafter—ere the meaner years go by— | |
| Praise with love and worship many honourable women, | |
| Those that gave their lives for us when we were like to die! | 40 |
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