Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/285

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To a strange beauty.—Was it then a dream,

That ghostly march, but yesternight,

Beneath the moon's uncertain light,

When, chill at heart, we pick'd our way

Thro' dreadful silent things, that lay

About our path on either hand?

Was it a dream? Is this the self-same land,

The land we pass'd thro' then?

How strange it seems!—Yet 'tis the same!

I see from here the path by which we came.

The tumbled soil, the shatter'd trees are there!

And there, in desolation sleeping,

Almost too pitiful for weeping,

The little village—once the home of men!

Aye! the whole scene is there!

As desperate in its abandonment,

As melancholy-wild and savage-bare

As then.—But somehow, in this warm, bright air

It all seems different!

The same—and yet I know it not!

Thus much I see.—But there's a spot

That's hidden from mine eyes!

Behind the ruin'd church it lies,

Where gaping vaults, beneath the nave,

Have made a dreadful kind of cave;

And there, before the cavern's mouth,

A dark and stagnant pool is spread

So silent and so still!

I saw it last i' th' pale moonlight;

And I could think that shapes uncouth

Crept from that cave at dead of night

With ghoulish stealth, to feast their fill

Upon the pale and huddled dead!

Yet now,

Haply, beneath this warm sunlight,