THE WAR BEGINS TO TROUBLE: A DETACHED OLD TREE
THEIR wounds are mouths, and I am alone here listening. It is not my heart that bleeds ; an ample tide
Wells mortally from the unbefriended side Of thousands massacred for mankind's re-christening.
Their limbs lie charred or sodden ; war is battening On beauty's apotheosis, vestal leaf That men wear only once ; and I, far off, Weave empty eternity for the world's enlightening, Let multitudinous leaves autumnally radiant (Glory too fickle to fertilise the gale), This golden year as last year, rust and fall ; Live starkly out my parsimony obedient, Thankful as ever no thunderbolt has cloven me, Bereft me of age's other-green disguise.
Hell of my late-found love—oh staunch their eyes, Their unforgettable wounds that have forgiven me!
LniAN BOWES LYON.
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