Over the Water

Think of it, think of it over the water
Thousands of men to-day march on to death,
Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter --
How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.

How in the shadows, perchance, of this even,
Hundreds of hearts, will have paused in their beat,
Pale, ghastly brows, will be turned up to heaven --
Brows that were pressed by lips, tender and sweet.