Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/44

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse Let him build for me a house Without doors or windows, For now am I at the end of my life."

Heavily hangs the rye
 * Bent to the trampled ground;

While brave men fighting die
 * Through blood the horses bound.

Under the white-stemmed tree
 * A Cossack bold is slain—

They lift him tenderly
 * Into the ruined grain.

Someone has borne him there,
 * Someone has put in place

A scarlet cloth, with prayer,
 * Over the up-turned face.

Softly a girl has come—
 * Dove-like she looks; all gray—

Stares at the soldier dumb
 * And, crying, goes away.

Then, swift, another maid—
 * Ah, how unlike she is!—