Poems (Tree)/Blow Upon Blow They Bruise the Daylight Wan
BLOW upon blow they bruise the daylight wan,Scar upon scar they rend the quiet shore;They ride on furious, leaving every manCrushed like a maggot by the hoofs of war:Gods that grow tired of paradisial waterAnd fill their cups with steaming wine of slaughter.
I fear a thing more terrible than death:The glamour of the battle grips us yet—As crowds before a fire that hold their breathWatching the burning houses, and forgetAll they will lose, but marvel to beholdIts dazzling strength, the glamour of its gold.
I fear the time when slow the flame expires,When this kaleidoscope of roaring colorFades, and rage faints; and of the funeral-firesThat shone with battle, nothing left of valourSave chill ignoble ashes for despairTo strew with widowed hands upon her hair.
Livid and damp unfolds the winding-sheet,Hiding the mangled body of the Earth:The slow grey aftermath, the limping feetOf days that shall not know the sound of mirth,But pass in dry-eyed patience, with no trustSave to end living and be heaped with dust.
That stillness that must follow where Death trod,The sullen street, the empty drinking-hall,The tuneless voices cringing praise to God,Deaf gods, that did not heed the anguished call,Now to be soothed with humbleness and praise,With fawning kisses for the hand that slays.
Across the world from out the fevered groundDecay from every pore exhales its breath;A cloak of penance winding close aroundThe bright desire of spring. And unto Death,As to a conquering king, we yield the keysOf Beauty's gates upon our bended knees.
The maiden loverless shall go her ways,And child unfathered feed on crust and husk;The sun that was the glory of our daysShining as tinsel till the moody duskInto our starving outstretched arms shall layHer silent sleep, the only boon we pray.
1914