RELIEVED

We are weary and silent,

There is only the rhythm of marching feet;

Tho’ we move tranced, we keep it

As clock-work toys.

But each man is alone in this multitude;

We know not the world in which we move,

Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy,

Level lands of tenuous grays and greens;

For our eye-balls have been seared with fire.

Only we have our secret thoughts,

Our sense floats out from us, delicately apprehensive,

To the very fringes of our being,

Where light drowns.