| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | After Battle | | By Marsden Hartley |
| | From “Kaleidoscope”
I “I DON’T know where | |
| We’re going to,” one said— | |
| “’Tis but a week has sped | |
| Since I saw the blooming sun | |
| Up there where it is day, | 5 |
| And every day was fair. | |
| How the water gurgles by the port! | |
| I hear the tread | |
| Of dreadful waves | |
| Above my head— | 10 |
| Or is it just the sea, | |
| Or is it just, eternity? | |
| They do not call us now, | |
| Who have a sorrow | |
| On their brow.” | 15 |
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II I heard the thunder | |
| Climb the bleeding hill— | |
| I heard it loud, and then | |
| I heard it still. | |
| They must have got some more | 20 |
| For the long rows in our yard! | |
| I heard someone implore | |
| How many—have you heard? | |
| And one said ten thousand, | |
| One said not a word! | 25 |
| I heard the spades go clinking | |
| In our earth: | |
| “We must go clinking | |
| All we’re worth,” | |
| The bright spades said, | 30 |
| “For they are piling | |
| Up the youngest dead; | |
| And they must have a place | |
| By heaven’s grace— | |
| There must be rest | 35 |
| For those that cannot longer | |
| Heave a breast.” | |
| |
III They speak of death | |
| Among deep roots of grass; | |
| They speak of death | 40 |
| Among deep waves of glass. | |
| They tell of light, and star, and love— | |
| But who shall ever them believe? | |
| The earth is not the sea, | |
| Nor sea the earth can be; | 45 |
| But death is much the same | |
| To them, and me— | |
| It is but one felicity! | | | | |
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