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58
ARMISTICE DAY
There is a stillness here
(After a terror of all raving sound),
And birds sit close for comfort,
On broken boughs.
April, April,
What of your sun and glad, high wind?
Your lifting hills and woods and eager brooks?
Your thousand-petaled hopes?
The sky forbids you sorrow, April!
And yet—
I see you walking listlessly
Across those scars that once were pregnant sod,
Those graves,
Those stepping-stones from life to life.
Death is an interruption between two heart-beats,
That I know—
Yet know not how I know—
But April mourns,
Trailing her leaves, the passion of her leaves,
Across the passion of those fearful fields.
Yes, all the fields!
No barrier here,
No challenge in the night,
No stranger-land,
