Arrow

An arrow poisoned, shot from bow

‘Mid yonder angry, threat'ning foe,

Swift flies toward soldiers pressing on

To lands beyond the setting sun.

A cry of warning rises forth,

And men at arms their shields throw o’er

The lad at whom the arrow’s aim

Would cause to fall, dead to remain.

So press they on, to gain the ground,

As darts of hatred fall around

And cover greenest grass below

With venom black as heart of foe.

Take heart, young soldier; rally, here,

And seize the ground while friends are near!

Such shafts must burn at end of day; 

For dust, and shadow’s ash, are they.