Poem 3: Many Vespers

On a road stretching to the horizon,

The grey arrow of our marching is deterred

By muddy feet and hearts without the sun

To troop along behind the line of one life pilfered.

His boots placed reversed in the riding mount

Remind us all that we are leaderless,

Tho no tears can come from the dried-up fount

Where once our sorrows flowed pure and boundless.

The funeral procession will march on,

But this fuss for one rankles when many others

Received cold obsequies, yet still are gone,

Wept-for or uncried-for by their brothers.

Stretch on, line of the increasing cortège,

Not one, but many walk behind your coffin,

Tho unsung, their vespers speak of courage,

As we do of their love, well and often.