58445: The Send-Off

<p dir="ltr"> Down the close darkening lanes they sang their way<br> To the siding-shed,<br> And lined the train with faces grimly gay.<br> Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray<br> As men's are, dead.<br> Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp<br> Stood staring hard,<br> Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.<br> Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp<br> Winked to the guard.<br> So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.<br> They were not ours:<br> We never heard to which front these were sent;<br> Nor there if they yet mock what women meant<br> Who gave them flowers.<br> Shall they return to beating of great bells<br> In wild train-loads?<br> A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,<br> May creep back, silent, to village wells,<br> Up half-known roads.</p>