THE POEM
Where war's strange fiery flowers bloom.
Immobile breast, and moveless air—
Oh, it is far to red roads where
Torn bodies twitch, and still eyes stare.
Oh, it is far to red roads where
Torn bodies twitch, and still eyes stare.
Oh, can there be so mad a place,
Where writhes a self-destructive race? . . .
Immobile breast, peace in her face.
Where writhes a self-destructive race? . . .
Immobile breast, peace in her face.
III.
Her gentle breathing scarce unfurls
The tiniest of her sleeping curls.
The eyes are closed, the soul withdrawn,
The wax cheeks show a doubtful flush
As when the East begins to dawn;
As quiet is her couch's hush.
One hand is cupped beneath her brow,
The other lies with fingers still
Upon the coverlet; and now
She almost smiles, as some deep thrill,
Dream-woven, has its vagrant will.
Her gentle breathing scarce unfurls
The tiniest of her sleeping curls.
The eyes are closed, the soul withdrawn,
The wax cheeks show a doubtful flush
As when the East begins to dawn;
As quiet is her couch's hush.
One hand is cupped beneath her brow,
The other lies with fingers still
Upon the coverlet; and now
She almost smiles, as some deep thrill,
Dream-woven, has its vagrant will.
IV.
Where do you wander
Out in your dreams?
Where do you wander
Out in your dreams?
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