From the Newark Evening Star, October 5, 1914. By Robert Burns Wilson.
Such is the death the soldier dies;
He falls, the column speeds away;
Upon the dabbled grass he lies,
His brave heart following still, the fray.
The smoke wreaths drift among the trees,
The battle storms along the hill;
The glint of distant arms he sees,
He hears his comrades shouting still.
A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade
And vanish in the roiling din;
He knows the sweeping charge is made,
The cheering lines are closing in.
Unmindful of his mortal wound,
He faintly calls and seeks to rise;
But weakness drags him to the ground.
Such is the death the soldier dies.