Yet you mark their leaves are blanched and sear,
Whispering daft at a nameless fear.
While round the hole of one is a rune,
Black in the wash of the bleaching noon.
"Ride, for the wind is awake and away.
Sleep, for the harvest grain is gray."
No word more. And many a mile,
A ghostly bivouac rank and file,
They sleep to-day on the marshes wide;