I stood on Marathon's old plain
and saw Miltiades again,
before ten thousand men of Athens;
and, bolder than their thousand spears, Plateans,
a little band who, too, would die
and on those marshes, ******, lie
rather than exchange the sword
for chains and curses of a Persian lord.

Many are the years since then.
But still their spirit breathes, for when
we contemplate their great success,
unknowingly their ancient souls we bless.

The sky is there;
the spruce and pine point to it.
A quarter moon
hovers scarcely through it.

For very soon
there will only be the stars
to lamp the night;
and the yellow windows
of bunkhouse light.

And there, the steady
murmur and the laugh
of those who do a cord
or two - or half.

The river, passing sluggishly,
twisting through the poplars' ranks,
moves a rolling, lazy thing
between her green and saffron banks.

Here and there, a silver bark
reflects the season and the sun;
and in the distance can be heard
the shallow chop of work begun.

Lead, living proudly for one hour gold:
A cloud that wears the glory of the sun,
and thus is privileged and granted bold
pretences - just as Cinderella won
until her hour struck. The colour worn,
will fade; then, vanishing, return to light.
And onward plodding as she was when born,
a single, leaden cloud will ride the night.

Timothy, Timothy, lonely Tim,
searching, searching, playing with Jim.
Wondering, wondering where you are
with uncles and aunts and no Mamma.

Family, family, you have none
- none you can call a personal one;
whom do you love and who loves you?
Is it Charlie or Jim, or Lucy or Sue?

Older and older you learn to cry
quietly, quietly tears that dry.
Puzzling, puzzling soon you find
that having no parents is not very kind.

Overhead the sky is black with stars
somewhere in the distance there are cars
and standing, listening, very still
in the long grass on a little hill,
high enough to look across the land,
I can see the distant, grey-blue sand;
and where the crest the sea so white,
foaming horses in the silver light.

When I am gone, remember me by these:
these simple flowers that are mine at will,
yet live, wild and laughing in the breeze.
When I am gone, remember me by these,
and that tomorrow they are laughing still.