Our armed migration choked the road. It ran ahead, a stream that flowed
Uphill to glory, so it seemed; and so imagination strode—
O Jack o' lantern!—into the unknown. The Virgin on a silver throne,
Our leaders swore, went on before us. I saw nothing but the Rhone,
The impulsive Rhone that tumbles down, and breaks clean through the grey-walled town.
I heard it rustle in its bed where others heard the Virgin's gown.
I blamed the foeman for my thirst, for sandstorm, flies, heat, scurvy—cursed
Them. Piles of grievance fumed until the red fire kindled. Madness burst
All bounds, and capered in the glare that wrapped us round like Nessus' shirt.
Each day 'twas there with yards to spare, and would not tear. How blue can hurt!