THE battle-smoke still fouled the day,
With bright disaster flaming through;
Unchecked, absorbed, she held her way—
The whispering death still past her flew.
A cross of red was on her sleeve;
And here she stayed, the wound to bind,
And there, the fighting soul relieve,
That strove its Unknown Peace to find.
A cross of red . . . yet one has dreamed
Of her he loved and left in tears;
But unto dying sight she seemed
A visitant from other spheres.
The whispering death—it nearer drew,
It holds her heart in strict arrest . .
And where was one, are crosses two—
A crimson cross is on her breast!