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Poem by John McCrae


The Warrior


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 Bluechers guns; he shared Almeidas scars,
And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the Birkenheads 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 Busacos strife,
Brave dreams are his -- the flickring lamp burns low --
Yet couraged for the battles of the day
He goes to stand full face to face with life.



John McCrae


John McCrae's other poems:
  1. The Harvest of the Sea
  2. The Shadow of the Cross
  3. Anarchy
  4. Quebec
  5. The Oldest Drama


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