I 

O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough - 
Light in their loving as soldiers can be - 
First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them 
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . . 

II 

- Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly 
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire, 
They stepping steadily--only too readily! - 
Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher. 

III 

Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there, 
Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night; 
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe, 
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight. 

IV 

Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily 
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss, 
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them 
Not to court perils that honour could miss. 

V 

Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours, 
When at last moved away under the arch 
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them, 
Treading back slowly the track of their march. 

VI 

Someone said: "Nevermore will they come: evermore 
Are they now lost to us." O it was wrong! 
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways, 
Bear them through safely, in brief time or long. 

VII 

- Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us, 
Hint in the night-time when life beats are low 
Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things, 
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show. 

Added: on April 19th, 2005 at 8:22 PM | Viewed: 5304 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Thomas Hardy
Poem: The Going of the Battery Wives. (Lament)

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