Their wild eyes burn across our sleep:
    They haunt us in the busy throng
With silent eloquence, more deep
                Than word or song.

Give: we are pawns upon the board;
    We see not how Fate’s dice are thrown.
The life swung by a trembling cord
                Might be your own.

Give: ’twill be meted back to thee
    When Death who waits, soe’er we roam,
Withdraws the veil that we may see
                The Lights of Home.