Give me your hand, my brother, search my face;   
Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame;   
For we have made an end of all things base.   
We are returning by the road we came.   
   
Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,  
And I am in the field where men must fight.   
But in the gloom I see your laurell'd head   
And through your victory I shall win the light.