UNDERNEATH the autumn sky, br Haltingly, the lines go by. br Ah, would steps were blithe and gay, br As when first they marched away, br Smile on lip and curl on brow, br Only white-faced gray-beards now, br Standing on life's outer verge, br E'en the marches sound a dirge. br Blow, you bugles, play, you fife, br Rattle, drums, for dearest life. br Let the flags wave freely so, br As the marching legions go, br Shout, hurrah and laugh and jest, br This is memory at its best. br (Did you notice at your quip, br That old comrade's quivering lip?) br Ah, I see them as they come, br Stumbling with the rumbling drum; br But a sight more sad to me br E'en than these ranks could be br Was that one with cane upraised br Who stood by and gazed and gazed, br Trembling, solemn, lips compressed, br Longing to be with the rest.