The Last Question: (For B. A. Bingham)

They lifted up his weary head,
Stained with a dark and bitter dew:
'How does the battle go?' he said.

Sir, it is victory,' -- when he heard
He smiled the darkening shadows through
And died as blithe as a singing bird.

On the stained grass as on a bed
Dying he lay and well content --
'Sir, it is victory,' they said.

So smiling, smiling all the way,
To the undying Dead he went
As to a heavenly holiday.