Shoulder The Sky, My Lad,

Therefore, Since The World Has Still Much Good, But Much Less Good Than Ill, And While The Sun And Moon Endure Luck's A Chance, But Trouble's Sure, I'd Face It As A Wise Man Would, And Train For Ill And Not For Good.

These, In The Day When Heaven Was Falling, The Hour When Earth's Foundations Fled, Followed Their Mercenary Calling And Took Their Wages And Are Dead. The British Regulars Who Made The Retreat From Mons, Beginning August 24, 1914.

Strapped, Noosed, Nighing His Hour, He Stood And Counted Them And Cursed His Luck; And Then The Clock Collected In The Tower Its Strength, And Struck.

With Rue My Heart Is Laden For Golden Friends I Had, For Many A Rose-lipped Maiden And Many A Lightfoot Lad.

He Would Not Stay For Me, And Who Can Wonder? He Would Not Stay For Me To Stand And Gaze. I Shook His Hand, And Tore My Heart In Sunder, And Went With Half My Life About My Ways.