THE DAYS

A long grim corridor — a sullen bar

Of light athwart the darkness — where no fleet

Pale sunshine spreads for dark his winding sheet

A light, not born of noon nor placid star

Glows lurid thro’ the gloom — while from afar,

Beats marching of innumerable feet.

Is this the place where tragic armies meet?

The throb of terror that presages war?—

I strain to see, then softly on my sight

There falls the vision, manifold they come —

White listless Day chained to her brother Night —

Their hands are shackled and their lips are dumb,

And as they meet the air where each one dies,

They turn and smile at me — with weary eyes.