An Old War-Song

Through the bright day up the mountain, we scan the sky for a war-torch;
At yellow dusk we water our horses in the boundary-river;
And when the throb of watch-drums hangs in the sandy wind,
We hear the guitar of the Chinese Princess telling her endless woe. . . .
Three thousand miles without a town, nothing but camps,
Till the heavy sky joins the wide desert in snow.
With their plaintive calls, barbarian wildgeese fly from night to night,
And children of the Tartars have many tears to shed;
But we hear that the Jade Pass is still under siege,
And soon we stake our lives upon our light war-chariots.
Each year we bury in the desert bones unnumbered,
Yet we only watch for grape-vines coming into China.