We wandered through the chill autumnal Park,

And spoke of courage and the youthful dead,

And how the boldest spirit may be cowed

By indiscriminate terror. Overhead,

The moon rode high on her predestined arc

Steadfast through tidal waves of sombre cloud.

Like vast antennae, search-lights swept the sky,

When, suddenly, as if in swift reply,

Out of the south, with jets of luminous smoke,

And coughing clatter, hidden guns awoke.

And we fell silent at the thought of dead.

We were too old to leap with panting breath

Into the turmoil of the bloody strife,

And dance upon the razor-edge of life

To fame or to oblivion. We must wait

Like senators of old, with folded hands,

In silence, seated, for the stroke of Fate.

One boon alone an ardent soul demands,

To die before its passion waxes cold,

Enthusiasm fails, or Love grows old.