Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/217

 OME, Death, I'd have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And love — a Lad with broken wing; And Pity, too: The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing. Ay, music hath small sense, And a tune's soon told, And Earth is old, And my poor wits are dense; Yet have I secrets, — dark, my dear, To breathe you all: Come near. And lest some hideous listener tells, I'll ring my bells.

They are all at war! — Yes, yes, their bodies go 'Neath burning sun and icy star To chaunted songs of woe, Dragging cold cannon through a mire Of rain and blood and spouting fire, The new moon glinting hard on eyes Wide with insanities!