The feet of the dead men make no sound
As they march along through the night;
But my heart can feel the quiver of the ground
As they come again from the fight —
Dead men marching row on row
To a soundless throbbing of drums —
Drums, or the throbbing of the blood in my veins,
Night after night, as the daylight wanes,
Marching silently and slow,
The dread procession comes.

The faces of the dead are all unknown,
As they come again from the war:
Flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone,
They are kin to the living no more.
Leaving the bodies we knew behind
In the lands where they fought and fell,
Their souls come marching through the twilight still
Over the crest of Hareshaw Hill,
Marching, marching on to find
The homesteads they loved well.

How shall we greet our own lost lad
When he drops from the ranks at the door,
With a still face, neither sad nor glad,
That we never have seen before?
How shall we greet that face unknown
With the strange unearthly eyes?
How shall we make him feel at home again,
A dead man among living men,
Sitting among us, mute and lone,
Till the light of the hearthstone dies?