The little green soldiers are here at last,
With their waving blades and spears;
And across the hills they are marching fast
With the drill of a thousand years:
And I wave afar, and I shout, Hurrah!
Till I hear their echoing cheers.
A bonnie prince is at their head,
And his love the legions know:
For he gives them rest where the twigs are red
At the hedges cool in a row:
And afoot are they soon to a birdlike tune
On the northward march to go.
Oh, I am leal to the marching men,
To my bonnie Prince I'm true;
For he tells me the way to his tented glen,
And the secret password too:
And he sets in my hair a blossom to wear,
Like his own good horsemen do.
Then I will follow on all the day
Where the bonnie Prince has led,
Till we drive the Winter foeman away
And throne my Prince instead:
And sing willaloo! With the birds, willaloo!
For the Winter King is dead.
Why Wallace Stevens’ Poetry is the Ultimate Guide to Mindful Living and the Antidote to the AI Era
Although he appeared as a poet relatively late in his career, the author left...


