Poem - Mary Gilmore

Gallipoli

By Mary Gilmore

He had 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.