The search-light swords
Stab the sky
Miles back,
Light taut cords
Of gold, high
Against the black.
A star-flare
Of showering red
Surprises night,
And hangs in air,
Painting the dead
With ruddy light.
The pale wax
Of their faces
Turns to blood
By dim tracks
In dark places
Of the wood.
Where I go
hurrying on,
Suddenly
I stumble low
One some one
God on high!
His face was cold,
And very white;
There was no blood.
I grew old
That night
In the wood.
He was young,
My enemy—
But lips the same
As lips have sung
Often with me.
I whispered the name
Of the friend whose face
Was so like his;
But never a sound
In the dim place
Under the trees
Closing round.
Then I cursed
My Nocturnes–
I hated night;
Hated it worst
When the moon turns
Her tired light
On horrible things
Man has done
With life and love.
Only a fool sings
When night’s begun
And the moon’s above.
I cursed each song
I made for men
Full of moonlight
Lasting night-long;
For I knew then
How evil is night.
I cursed each tune
If night-dim wood
And Naiad’s stream,
by that mad moon
Asearch for blood
And the waxen gleam
Of dead faces
Under the trees
In the trampled grass,
Till the bloody traces
Of the agonies
Of night-time pass.