In Time of War II

And far above the purple heath the sunset stars awaken,And ghostly hosts of cloud across the West begin to stream,And all the low soft winds with muffled cannonades are shaken,And all the blood-red blossom draws aloof into a dream;A dream--no more--and round the dream the clouds are curled together;A dream of two great stormy hosts embattled in the sky;For there against the low red heavens each sombre ridge of heatherUp-heaves a hedge of bayonets around a battle-cry;

Melts in the distant battle-field or brings the dream so near itThat, almost, as the rifted clouds around them swim and reel,A thousand grey-lipped faces flash--ah, hark, the heart can hear it--The sharp command that lifts as one the levelled lines of steel.

And through the purple thunders there are silent shadows creepingWith murderous gleams of light, and then--a mighty leaping roarWhere foe and foe are met; and then--a long low sound of weepingAs Death laughs out from sea to sea, another fight is o'er.

Another fight--but ah, how much is over? Night descendingDraws o'er the scene her ghastly moon-shot veil with piteous hands;But all around the bivouac-glare the shadowy pickets wendingSee sights, hear sounds that only war's own madness understands.

No circle of the accursed dead where dreaming Dante wandered,No city of death's eternal dole could match this mortal worldWhere men, before the living soul and quivering flesh are sundered,Through all the bestial shapes of pain to one wide grave are hurled.

But in the midst for those who dare beyond the fringe to enterBe sure one kingly figure lies with pale and blood-soiled face,And round his brows a ragged crown of thorns; and in the centreOf those pale folded hands and feet the sigil of his grace.

See, how the pale limbs, marred and scarred in love's lost battle,languish;See how the splendid passion still smiles quietly from his eyes:Come, come and see a king indeed, who triumphs in his anguish,Who conquers here in utter loss beneath the eternal skies.

For unto lips so deadly calm what answer shall be given?Oh pale, pale king so deadly still beneath the unshaken stars,Who shall deny thy kingdom here, though heaven and earth were riven,With the last roar of onset in the world's intestine wars?

The laugh is Death's; he laughs as erst o'er hours that Englandcherished,"Count up, count up the stricken homes that wail the first-born son,Count by your starved and fatherless the tale of what hath perished;Then gather with your foes and ask if you--or I--have won."