Cool grow the fevered cannon’s lips—
Their wreathing vapors far dispersed.
“Cease firing!” From the sponson’s rim
The mute, black muzzles frown across
The sea, where swelling surges toss
The armored squadrons, silent, grim.
“Cease firing!” Look, white banners show
Along the groves where heroes sleep—
Above the graves where men lie deep—
In pure, soft flutterings of snow.