Page:Poet Lore, volume 28, 1917.djvu/496



In the grey misty rain Along the streets Of the smoky city Slowly, slowly goes by The carriage that bears no flowers, But the three colors As a wreath On a little coffin. Soldiers follow, With faces stern and impassive, Rifles at trail: Maidens follow They too in war apparel, Cross of red on tunic of blue. The wet asphalt reflects In sudden transparent drifts Livid and icy The shadows of the sad procession Drifting, drifting, As on the waters of a river Whose banks are silence And whose mouth is death. From dark open spaces of doors From glistening sidewalks People hastening pale Look on: and the men Reverently uncover Their heads, and the women Half-gesture the sign of the cross Between a sigh and a shudder.