The sun's golden spear,
The violet cloud writhing in pain;
Golden the tint of the sky,
The tall trees wave their green-gold hair.
Music of this hour!
The zephyr's perfume-laden argosy
Drifts with the song of lutes
Down the sunset-stream that falls from heaven's bower.
Another flow of light,
Tinkling like the intangible bells of paradise,
Flows out of my heart
Into the mysterious love-perfumed ocean of night.
49
TRUCE
A field of battle—this sky,
The sun, the hero bleeding to death;
The shadows and lights hurl their
Hosts of clouds ceaselessly:
No peace?
Warfare all?
Nay, lo! she cometh—
The Spirit of Truce,
The Evening Star!