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Heard how often, still the notes compel
Unused to awe, we stand listening.
The bugle speaks
Its oscillating graph
Defines a life
Swiftly it joins the restless world of men
The to-fro tumult, test, action, decision,
The being expressed in ceaseless doing
Issues in closing calm, inevitable
Not held, not hurried
The last long note
A vapour-trail reaching beyond the horizon
A molten thread of glass drawn infinite
A shaft of light escaping the universe
Travelling towards that country from whose bourn
No traveller returns.

Poems of War

Poems of the Spirit