But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men.
The German and the Englishman were each an open foe,
And open hatred hurled[125] us back from Russia’s blinding snow;
Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain
The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain.
I saw a village[126] in the hills, as silent[127] as a dream,
Naught stirring but the summer sound[128] of a merry mountain stream;
The evening star[129] just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye,
And the chestnut woods[130] were still and calm beneath the deepening sky.
But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found,