 | Under the dawn |  |
43
THE CHILDREN OF MEN.
The children of men came nigh to me,
And sang of the loves that were lost,
And the blight, and the spears of the frost,
Red splinters, and spars wind-tost,
And the tears in their eyes I could see,
And the signs of the swords that exhaust;
And sang of the loves that were lost,
And the blight, and the spears of the frost,
Red splinters, and spars wind-tost,
And the tears in their eyes I could see,
And the signs of the swords that exhaust;
And black-stained woe upon faces,
As when a man presses grapes—
And abundant rustle of crapes
I heard, and I saw strange shapes,
And white, bruised arms of our graces,
And necks made red at the napes;
As when a man presses grapes—
And abundant rustle of crapes
I heard, and I saw strange shapes,
And white, bruised arms of our graces,
And necks made red at the napes;
And sounds of sighing and sorrow,
And sweet, wan faces and pale,
And a dismal multifold wail
I heard, and I saw boats sail
To a sea with no to-morrow,
And a cloudless sky without veil.
And sweet, wan faces and pale,
And a dismal multifold wail
44
To a sea with no to-morrow,
And a cloudless sky without veil.
And I laughed to think of the roses,
And the loves, and the sweet lost days,
And the untrodden fair long ways,
And the grasses, and untouched sprays
Of the chestnuts, and one that reposes
On the beach that heaven obeys;
And the loves, and the sweet lost days,
And the untrodden fair long ways,
And the grasses, and untouched sprays
Of the chestnuts, and one that reposes
On the beach that heaven obeys;
The fair gold beach of the present,
Clothed with stones and with sand,
A beautiful soft-spun land—
And sweet on the floor is her hand,
And her feet to the weeds are pleasant,
And her soles to that wet far strand.
Clothed with stones and with sand,
A beautiful soft-spun land—
And sweet on the floor is her hand,
And her feet to the weeds are pleasant,
And her soles to that wet far strand.
| Under the dawn | |