_Out past the Highlands’ smoke and Autumn gold, The great gray ships on secret orders steam; Battalioned boys their dawn-lit land behold Drifting astern, like towers in a dream; They watch the havened harbor lights that gleam Speechless farewell, too tender to be told-- Until within their breasts austere and bold, The former days remote and alien seem, And they, the fathers of a Day supreme. Thus, visioning their service--to a man-- They grim in their stern blitheness, sail to War. Yea, while we sleep, in one night’s star-lit span-- Youth leaves our shores--to face the Minotaur._ A chill air emphasizes the weather stains on arcade and collonade. Now and then the pale sunlight glitters faint…
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