Little soldier, so proud you are in crimson tunic,

emerald epaulettes and matching pantaloons.

Stand tall and face bitter autumn winds

which scrape bare the once-green garden wherein once would parade

colored battalions in summer victories, too many to name.

Comrades all in crimson, pink, yellow, white

You knew them well in days of golden summer light,

But the wind; the cruel, autumn wind, must blow.

Stand tall, lonely face the autumn chill.

Colored tunics falter each dwindling day and

ever-lengthened shadows disguise their worth.

Summer glories seem not so long ago;

deserving they may be, reside in dusty memory.

The autumn wind may sting and tunics fade.

Courage! Do not dare waver. Though lone you gaze at tearful sentry post

Wonder at crumbled leaves swirling at your feet.

Your legion comrades: where have they gone—where have they gone?

Glory—will it ever shine again?

What seems a tear is but the chilly dew

and not despair, for years of duty-done will dry the eye.

The heart knows when autumn winds

whisper secrets in soldiers' ears:

"Stand at ease and take your rest."

With crumbling leaves find lost comrades in the dust.