| |
| THEIR strange eyes hold no vision, as a rule; | |
| No dizzy glory. A still look is theirs, | |
| But rather as one subtly vacant stares, | |
| Watching the circling magic of a pool. | |
| |
| Now when the morning firing becomes tame, | 5 |
| Out in the warming sun he tries to guess | |
| Which battery they’re after. “Let me see; | |
| Which battery is there? which battery? | |
| I wonder which…..” Again, again, the same | |
| Returning question, idle, meaningless. | 10 |
| Startled, he sighs—or laughs—or softly swears; | |
| Mutteringly something of dear names declares | |
| In the bitter cruelty of tenderness. | |
| |
| The planes drift low, circling monotonously, | |
| Droning like many a drowsy bumble-bee | 15 |
| Some summer morning. Only now and then | |
| A whining shell, the mere formality | |
| Of stupid war, calls back his thoughts again. | |
| |
| Suddenly near the unseen death swoops low, | |
| Laughing and singing; and full pitifully | 20 |
| The startled eyes stare wide, but do not see | |
| The whirling features of the genie foe, | |
| Safe in his summoned cloud. The quiet skies | |
| Tell not his surest comings. With waved wands | |
| A mist springs from the earth, and swaying stands | 25 |
| A veiling moment ….. sinks ….. | |
| And there he lies | |
| Face down, clutching the clay with warm dead hands. | |
| |
