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The Volunteer
(11 March 1881 - 5 August 1947 / London, England)

The Volunteer

Poem By Herbert Asquith

Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent
Toiling at ledgers in a city grey,
Thinking that so his days would drift away
With no lance broken in life’s tournament:
Yet ever ’twixt the books and his bright eyes
The gleaming eagles of the legions came,
And horsemen, charging under phantom skies,
Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme.

And now those waiting dreams are satisfied;
From twilight to the halls of dawn he went;
His lance is broken; but he lies content
With that high hour, in which he lived and died.
And falling thus he wants no recompense,
Who found his battle in the last resort;
Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence,
Who goes to join the men of Agincourt.

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Comments (3)

We do each dream of glory, each in our own way and it is pleasant to see a poet which the courage to divulge this and the skill to make it so poetically beautiful.
Those waiting dreams are now satisfied! ! Nice work.
i think everyone does the same. hope and try to gain.its all the time a battle for we all clerk, as poet herbet has written in his poem.


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