Swathes of the dark-red weed, and the beaten foam, and the leaping
Gasping silver life of the deep, and the tragical driftwood,
Some great wave withdrawn, at the turn of the tide, from the floodmark.
Sad it seethes back to the sea.
That was the turn of the war-tide,
Ebb of the hope of the South, end of the Battle of Battles!
VIII
Noon of the night was come; and over the field sacrificial,
Over the trampled corn, and the broken trees, and the horror,—
Horror of soulless pain of the beasts that perish unknowing,