A. Alondra

THE NIGHT-FALL in the trenches—

The hungry Russian plain

Stretching its endless whiteness

Beneath the bullet’s rain.

Those flecks of black and crimson—

Ah, God! the vultures know!—

Are hearts that beat with love and hope

But one short hour ago.

Above the fumes of battle,

Above the shrieks of hell,

The singing of the bullet,

The crashing of the shell,

A dream of gold-green shadows—

Ah, God! the wood-doves know!—

Where you and I walked hand in hand

A thousand years ago!