In a dream I saw war riding the land: Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glare Of sack’d cities smouldering in the dark, A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head, And hid her face of dread.... Yet, in my passion would I look on her, Crying, O hark, Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scythe Of God, that iron scythe forged by his thunder For reaping of nations overripened, fashioned Upon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flying In a starry night, dying, fall hereunder.... But she, she heeded not my cry impassioned Nor turned her face of dread, Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head, O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy going These bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery ways Whereby no influence strays Ruder than a cold wind blowing, Or beating needles of rain, Why must thou ride again Ruthless among the pastures yet unripened, Crushing their beauty in thine iron track Downtrodden, ravish’d in thy following flame, Parched and black? But she, she stayed not in her weary haste Nor turned her face; but fled: And where she passed the lands lay waste.... And now I cannot tell whither she rideth: But tired, tired rides she. Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth: She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth, Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning, Nor all her hate availeth: For she passeth out of sight Into that night From which none, none returneth To waste the meadows of youth, Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe, O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow. And a hope within me springs That fair will be the morrow, And that charred plain, Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at last In a sweet, clean Freshness, as when the green Grass springeth, where the prairie fire hath passed. AFTER ACTION All through that day of battle the broken sound Of shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood; So that the low trees shuddered where they stood, And echoes bellowed in the bush around: But when, at last the light of day was drowned, That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good! There, in the reek of iodine and blood, I flung me down upon the thorny ground. So quiet was it, I might well have been lying In a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakes Its dew upon the lattice panes at even: Where rusty ivory scatters from the dying Jessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaks Her dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven. SONNET