A soldier in big boots,
Belt, and knapsack;
Quickly forgetting
And seldom sorrowful,
Forever pressing on
Under the wide night sky.
Are not his twenty summers there?
The pure fragrance of the water
And the melody of the wind;
We loved them dearly,
And the image of those days
Still makes my heart pause
In its beating.
A little soldier and a clear voice,
And if anyone were to caress him
He would hardly understand,
This little soldier with the big boots
And the shut heart,
Who marches because he is wearing big boots,
And has forgotten all else but marching.