Page:Songs before sunrise (IA beforesunrisongs00swinrich).pdf/47

 The loud red mouths of the fight Are silent and shut where we are. In our eyes the tempestuous air Shines as the face of a star.

England, what of the night?— Night is for slumber and sleep, Warm, no season to weep. Let me alone till the day. Sleep would I still if I might, Who have slept for two hundred years. Once I had honour, they say; But slumber is sweeter than tears.

France, what of the night?— Night is the prostitute's noon, Kissed and drugged till she swoon, Spat upon, trod upon, whored. With bloodred rose-garlands dight, Round me reels in the dance Death, my saviour, my lord, Crowned; there is no more France.