To F. G. S.

("Seriously wounded.")

Peaks that you dreamed of, hills your heart has climbed on.
Never your feet shall climb, your eyes shall see:
All your life long you must tread lowly places,
Limping for England, well — so let it be.

We know your heart's too high for any grudging,
More than she asked, you gladly gave to her:
What tho' it's streets you'll tramp instead of snow-fields.
You'll be the cheeriest, as you always were.

Yes, and you'll shoulder all our packs — we know you —
And none will guess you're wearied night or day —
Yes, you'll lift lots of lame dogs over fences.
Who might have lifted you, for that's your way.

All your life long — no matter — so you've chosen.
Pity you? Never — that were waste indeed —
Who up hills higher than the Alps you loved so
All your life long will point the way and lead.