The Warrior

By John McCrae

1872-1918


He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
         But with the night his little lamp-lit room
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
         Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
         And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars
         Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:

Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
         At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
         Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low --
         Yet couraged for the battles of the day
         He goes to stand full face to face with life.

DayPoems Poem No. 1093
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1093.html">The Warrior by John McCrae</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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