Down the close darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed,
And lined to the train with faces grimly gay.

Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath
and spray
As men's are, dead.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the Upland camp.

Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked at the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
They were not ours:
We never heard to which front these were sent

Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beating of great bells
In wild train-loads?
A few, and a few, too few for drums and yells,

May creep back, silent, to still village wells,
Up half-known roads.