Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/84

 XIX

LEAPING wind from England,

The skies without a stain,

Clean cut against the morning

Slim poplars after rain,

The foolish noise of sparrows

And starlings in a wood—

After the grime of battle

We know that these are good.

Death whining down from heaven,

Death roaring from the ground,

Death stinking in the nostril,

Death shrill in every sound,

Doubting we charged and conquered—

Hopeless we struck and stood;

Now when the fight is ended

We know that it was good.

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