Here They Come.

Here they come, 

the old soldiers,

over the hill in ghostly form,

bearing arms, 

but like shadows

and echoes after a storm.

My distant cousin there

amongst the ghostly throng, 

fallen in battle, 

a young warrior,

who shared the same courage

and the same sing-song.

Who can see or hear them?

Who senses the case to be?

They move slowly as in prayer,

over hills and fields now still,

and all guns silent as the night; 

they march, this army, 

in solemn pace

not to fight or kill, 

but hope to rest some place.