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THE BRINK OF BATTLE
Yon mute grandeur of the midnight Heaven
Hangs like some dread destiny o’erhead.
Earth is dumb with awe, the air is stricken
Voiceless; light ts over, day is dead.
Only do my footsteps break the silence,
Trampling peace beneath their restless tread;
Only do my thoughts go whirling, whirling,
’Mid the stillness in tempestuous rush,
Like a thousand emulous warriors surging
Heavily against this world-wide hush—
Heavily! O God! have they not power
Twenty human hearts like mine to crush?
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