Henry Head

“ Like vast antennae, search-lights swept the sky,
When, suddenly, as if in swift reply,
Out of the south, with jets of luminous smoke,
And coughing clatter, hidden guns awoke.
And we fell silent at the thought of dead.
We were too old to leap with panting breath
Into the turmoil of the bloody strife,
And dance upon the razor-edge of life
To fame or to oblivion. We must wait
Like senators of old, with folded hands,
In silence, seated, for the stroke of Fate.
One boon alone an ardent soul demands,
To die before its passion waxes cold,
Enthusiasm fails, or Love grows old. ”