[Editor: Published in Aussie: The Australian Soldiers’ Magazine, no. 1, 18 January 1918.]
I lie on the ridge and the moon is low
And I know away to the West
Are the tranquil homes we keep from the foe,
Though only our dead are blest.
Wild thoughts rush through my sweating brow
But I dream of you, dear, at rest.
I dream that you came on a silent ray,
Til you stood in a garb of white,
And I hear your voice in the turmoil pray
For them that have died this night.
But I cannot follow your heavenly way,
For only the faithful might.
Morn finds me still on this ridge of Hell,
Where the boys are holding fast,
With the dead and dying where they fell
And the wounded crawling past,
And the roar of the guns is the only knell
For them that have breathed their last.
My bones may bleach where we make this stand,
Or buried in Belgian loam,
But along the path where I saw you stand
My Spirit shall ever roam —
That path in a muddy and blood-soaked land,
So far from my sunny home.
Darcy V. Meek.
Aussie: The Australian Soldiers’ Magazine, no. 1, 18 January 1918, page 5
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