Dimmed under mists of blood; they fell, they tried to rise,--
Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay,
Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky,
Touched with a redness from the end of day.
There was all April in the blackbird's cry.
And lying there they felt they had to die,
Die and go under mould and feel no more
April's green fire of life go running in earth's core.
"There was no need to hit me," Michael said;
"You quiet thinking fellows lose control.