Salvage

Not the encounter of navies in battle array - The roar of salvoes - the smoke-wrack that darkens the day - But a mined ship with her forepeak full Off the Foreland, waiting towing . . . Not the white flame of the searchlights, the red glare between, The heaven-splitting thunder and roar of the struck magazine - But a fog rolling up the Channel as white as wool, And never a light showing . . . Not the fierce dash of destroyers - the bow-wave like snow - The track of the headlong torpedo launched swift on the foe - But a ship aground off the Long Sand light, And a hell of a gale blowing . . . Not the stern splendour of battle, the glory, the fame, Not the awarding of honours, the nation's acclaim, But a crew and a cargo to take off in the night, And the light fast going . . . (But only the duty and the deed - whose reward is in no man's bestowing!)