Bronze (Johnson)/Homing Braves

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HOMING BRAVES
There's music in the measured treadOf those returning from the deadLike scattered flowers from a plainSo lately crimson, with the slain.
No more the sound of shuffled feetShall mark the poltroon on the street,Nor shifting, sodden, downcast eyeReveal the man afraid to die.
They shall have paid full, utterlyThe price of peace across the sea,When, with uplifted glance, they comeTo claim a kindly welcome home.
Nor shall the old-time daedal stingOf prejudice, their manhood wing,Nor heights, nor depths, nor living streamsStand in the pathway of their dreams!
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