The Outpost
The dying sunset’s slanting rays
Incarnadine the soldier’s deed,
His sturdy countenance betrays
The bull-dog breed.
Not his to shun the stubborn fight,
The struggle against cruel odds.
Alone, unaided ’tis a sight
For men and gods.
And now his back is bowed and bent,
Now stooping, now erect he stands,
And now the red life blood is sprent
From both his hands.
He takes his enemies on trust
As one who sees and yet is blind,
For every mutilating thrust
Comes from behind.
’Tis done! The dying sun has gone,
But triumph fills the soldier’s breast.
He’s sewn his back brace button on
While fully dressed.
