Classic Poem

So large the army grows,
The unseen army of the well-loved dead!
We, here, for yet a little while make head
Against unnumbered foes.

But broken is the square—now back to back
Or side by side we stand,
A small sore-smitten band;
Blood freely runs and corpses strew the track.

And yet amid wild blows
Somewhat of strange delight
Waxes and heightens, thrills the heart and glows:
So much of day is done, so near is night.

So near is night, when on the hard-fought field
As the great moon from silent heaven peers down
The square that would not yield
Will rest—for every brow has won death's crown.