THE IDES OF MARCH
Just as, amid cabals of his treacherous court,
Suspecting each rich curtain of a knife,
A king broods heavily,
Even so, aware that flesh and bone are restless
With secret news and undefined intention,
Sits on his shaking throne my winter soul.
BELGIUM
This is the field that was crushed in their dying,
And over and over the wind blows sighing—
A desolate, sobbing searching wind.
'Tis a low gray land of barren spaces
And long rough ridges of burial places,
The grass bruised into the choking sod.
The clouds are lank with a dull slow weeping,
And the mist enshrouds the place of their sleeping.
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