Hands on the window-sill
I hear but cannot see.
Ghosts riding down the hill
I see but cannot hear.
My heart is cold with fear
Of every trembling tree.
The day has never been,
And day will never be.
And Night is very lean,
And Death is very swift.
And green eyes blink and shift
Through every monstrous tree.
Black arms across the night,
And hands I may not flee,
And fingers grasping tight
That choke my little cries,
And I shall have green eyes
Within a phantom tree.
A SOLDIER DYING
"Lad, why are your fingers twitching,
What is the thing they strain to hold?
Why does your blood flow thick, enriching
A bleak strange place?"
"Dying, dying—then do not task me!"
"Tell me before your lips are cold."
"I am afraid of the thing you ask me."
"—Before the dark is in your face."
"This is why my blood is oozing.
Because my masters did the choosing.
Blood is cheap and bought for gold."
"Are they masters of your knowing?"
"I know not who my masters be.
I only know my blood is flowing,
Because my secret masters said,
'We shall live and he be dead.'"
"This is why your fingers straining
Clutch the thing they shall not hold?"
"This is why the blood is waning,
Waning from my face.
They gathered in the market-place,
They gathered to buy merchandise.
My blood was bought for little price,
My masters bought and I was sold.
This is why my blood is oozing,
Blood is cheap and bought for gold."