 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Whilst numbers a man fingers of one hand;
Be thóusand sons, more, fállen in Field of fight,
Death-smitten! . . . Ah! suddenly, corses without breath!
Soon to grow cold. Or mangled with war-wounds;
Remain in life, to slowlier die war-deaths.
Or salved their hurts, and saved to live uneath:
Must live on, móngst their fellows, broken wights.
In all that griesly Field, lies every stride;
Gore-stained, with young men-soldiers', murder-blood.
Be thóusand sons, more, fállen in Field of fight,
Death-smitten! . . . Ah! suddenly, corses without breath!
Soon to grow cold. Or mangled with war-wounds;
Remain in life, to slowlier die war-deaths.
Or salved their hurts, and saved to live uneath:
Must live on, móngst their fellows, broken wights.
In all that griesly Field, lies every stride;
Gore-stained, with young men-soldiers', murder-blood.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |