Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/133

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HE Kings go by with jewelled crowns;

Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are many.

The sack of many-peopled towns

Is all their dream:

The way they take

Leaves but a ruin in the brake,

And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make,

A stampless penny; a tale, a dream.