Gallipoli

Had he never been born he was mine:

Since he was born he never was mine:

Only the dream is our own

Where the world called him there he went;

When the war called him, there he bent,

Now he is dead

He was I; bone of my bone,

Flesh of my flesh, in truth;

For his plenty I gave my own,

His drouth was my drouth.

When he laughed I was glad,

In his strength forgot I was weak,

In his joy forgot I was sad

Now there is nothing to ask or to seek;

He is dead.

I am the ball the marksman sent,

Missing the end and falling spent;

I am the arrow, sighted fair

That failed, and finds not anywhere.

He who was I is dead.

Dame Mary Gilmore