Here ran a road for lovers once,
With maples in the moon;
And under a bridge a water went
Weaving a dreamy rune.
And high upon the sycamores,
The nightingales all night
Besieged the dark with melody,
Disturbed the boughs with flight.
And here in coverts of tall grass
Looked up a friendly spring,
Glad to behold a face bent down,
Or feel a fleeting wing.
But now the lovers come no more;
The road is rutted and marred
By wheels and shrieking shells: the trees
Are shattered, chopt and charred.
New graves are billowing now: the field
Like windy water heaves:
The nightingales are gone: the spring
Is choked with bloody leaves.
And here at noon a vulture swoops
On obscene errands bound:
And here at night remembering ghosts
Go by without a sound.
EDWIN MARKHAM.
