Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
After Battle
By Marsden Hartley
From “Kaleidoscope”

“I DON’T know where
We’re going to,” one said—
“’Tis but a week has sped
Since I saw the blooming sun
Up there where it is day,        5
And every day was fair.
How the water gurgles by the port!
I hear the tread
Of dreadful waves
Above my head—        10
Or is it just the sea,
Or is it just, eternity?
They do not call us now,
Who have a sorrow
On their brow.”        15
I heard the thunder
Climb the bleeding hill—
I heard it loud, and then
I heard it still.
They must have got some more        20
For the long rows in our yard!
I heard someone implore
How many—have you heard?
And one said ten thousand,
One said not a word!        25
I heard the spades go clinking
In our earth:
“We must go clinking
All we’re worth,”
The bright spades said,        30
“For they are piling
Up the youngest dead;
And they must have a place
By heaven’s grace—
There must be rest        35
For those that cannot longer
Heave a breast.”
They speak of death
Among deep roots of grass;
They speak of death        40
Among deep waves of glass.
They tell of light, and star, and love—
But who shall ever them believe?
The earth is not the sea,
Nor sea the earth can be;        45
But death is much the same
To them, and me—
It is but one felicity!

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