THE MASSACRE

The shadow of a poplar tree

Lay in that lake of sun,

As I with my little sword went in —

Against a thousand, one.

Haughty and infinitely armed,

Insolent in their wrath,

Plumed high with purple plumes they held

The narrow meadow path.

The air was sultry; all was still;

The sun like flashing glass;

And snip-snap my light-whispering steel

In arcs of light did pass.

Lightly and dull fell each proud head,

Spiked keen without avail,

Till swam my uncontented blade

With ichor green and pale.

And silence fell: the rushing sun

Stood still in paths of heat,

Gazing in waves of horror on

The dead about my feet.

Never a whir of wing, no bee

Stirred o'er the shameful slain;

Nought but a thirsty wasp crept in,

Stooped, and came out again.

The very air trembled in fear;

Eclipsing shadow seemed

Rising in crimson waves of gloom —

On one who dreamed.