THE MASSACRE
And silence fell: the rushing sun
Stood still in paths of heat,
Gazing in waves of horror on
The dead about my feet.
Never a whir of wing, no bee
Stirred o'er the shameful slain;
Nought but a thirsty wasp crept in,
Stooped, and came out again.
The very air trembled in fear;
Eclipsing shadow seemed
Rising in crimson waves of gloom —
On one who dreamed.
79
