Frances Gregg

SILENTLY, through the misted, silver quiet,

They come.

And the feet that were dancing,

And the music and laughter,

Are still.

And the wreaths that were

Of poppies and vine-leaves,

And the sheaves of wheat,

And the purple fruit of the vineyards

That they bore in their hands,

And the colored robes that they wore,

Were of one tint and transparence,

Silver.

And lightly they passed.

And music,

Long sought and forgotten music,

Lifted the mists.

And One, holding a scourge

Whose devious flames

Sang,

Bade them kneel down;

And each ineffable Victim

Went forth,

Bearing a golden, never-healing wound.