Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/44

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POETRY: A Magazine of Verse

Let him build for me a house
Without doors or windows,
For now am I at the end of my life."


SONG OF THE COSSACK

Heavily hangs the rye
Bent to the trampled ground;
While brave men fighting die
Through blood the horses bound.

Under the white-stemmed tree
A Cossack bold is slain—
They lift him tenderly
Into the ruined grain.

Someone has borne him there,
Someone has put in place
A scarlet cloth, with prayer,
Over the up-turned face.

Softly a girl has come—
Dove-like she looks; all gray—
Stares at the soldier dumb
And, crying, goes away.

Then, swift, another maid—
Ah, how unlike she is!—

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