I heard a voice that cried, "Make way for those who died!" 
And all the coloured crowd like ghosts at morning fled ; 
And down the waiting road, rank after rank there strode, 
In mute and measured march a hundred thousand dead. 

A hundred thousand dead, with firm and noiseless tread, 
All shadowy-grey yet solid, with faces grey and ghast, 
And by the house they went, and all their brows were bent 
Straight forward ; and they passed, and passed, and passed, and passed. 

But O there came a place, and O there came a face, 
That clenched my heart to see it, and sudden turned my way ; 
And in the Face that turned I saw two eyes that burned, 
Never-forgotten eyes, and they had things to say. 

Like desolate stars they shone one moment, and were gone, 
And I sank down and put my arms across my head, 
And felt them moving past, nor looked to see the last, 
In steady silent march, our hundred thousand dead.