The Burning Marl

What of the Night?

J. Le Gay Brereton

THE DOOM is imminent of unholy hate.
    Hail to the light that glimmers where the leaves
    Are shaken by winds of dawning, and the sheaves
Of hemlock swirl and scatter in the spate!
Love, that has learned in faith to sorrow and wait,
    Sings loud his glorious charm and subtly weaves
    The spell subduing madness that receives
The madman at his own mad estimate.

Ah, but the ponderous horror! Nay, not yet
    The cloud of sorrow leeward growls and rolls;
        The eyes that meet the morn are heavy and wet.
The loss the military mind enscrolls,
    Spilt blood and battered bones, we may forget,
        But not the wastage of beloved souls

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