THE GUNS

Menace, hidden, but pulsing in the air of night:

Then a throbbing thunder, split and seared

With the scarlet flashes of innumerable shells,

And against it, suddenly, a shell, closer;

A purr that changes to a whine

Like a beast of prey that has missed its kill,

And again, closer.

But even in the thunder of the guns

There is a silence: and the soul groweth still.

Yea, it is cloaked in stillness:

And it is not fear.

But the torn and screaming air

Trembles under the onset of warring angels

With terrible and beautiful faces;

And the soul is stilled, knowing these awful shapes,

That burden the night with oppression,

To be but the creatures of its own lusts.