THE wheels are silent, the cords are slack,
The terrible faces are surging back.
France, they too love thee! bid that keep plain;
The wrath and carnage I stayed afar
Colleagues of my white conscience are:
Accept my slayers, accept me slain!
Shed for days, in its olden guise
The quiet delicate snake-skin lies
To cheat a boy on his woodland stroll:
What if he crush it? Others see