In the valley of death, where the cannons roar,
Six hundred brave souls, they marched evermore,
With sabres drawn high, their spirits ablaze,
Riding into the fire, through the smoke and the haze.

Oh, Charge of the Light Brigade, in the face of the fray,
Valiant hearts, undeterred, led the way,
With courage unyielding, they stormed through the night,
In the annals of history, their names shining bright.

Born of the cavalry, the finest and bold,
Men of the Light Brigade, with stories untold,
From Britain’s green fields, to Crimea's dread shore,
They answered the call, to battle once more.

Forward, the order, no time for delay,
Into the jaws of death, they surged to obey,
With thunder and fury, the cannons did sound,
Yet onward they charged, on that blood-soaked ground.

Half a league, half a league, onward they rode,
Into the valley, where bravery flowed,
Broken but unbowed, through the heart of the fight,
Their legend immortal, in the eternal light.ght.

Cannon to the right, cannon to the left,
They fought through the fire, though so many bereft,
Boldly they rode, into the mouth of hell,
A story of valour, we’ll forever tell.

In the aftermath’s shadow, with echoes of pain,
Few returned homeward, but honour they gained,
The Light Brigade's charge, a testament to,
The brave and the fallen, the fearless and true.

Honour the charge, remember the day,
When six hundred heroes showed us the way,
With swords and with glory, they rode into fate,
The Charge of the Light Brigade, forever great.

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea’s side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water’s speeches.

Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour’s word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow’s signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven’s sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea’s side hear the dark-vowelled birds.