The Silent Battle

(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)

He was a soldier in that fight
   Where there is neither flag nor drum,
  And without sound of musketry
   The stealthy foemen come.

Year in, year out, by day and night
   They forced him to a slow retreat,
  And for his gallant fight alone
   No fife was blown, and no drum beat.

In winter fog, in gathering mist
   The gray grim battle had its end—
  And at the very last we knew
   His enemy had turned his friend.