There are naked arms, with bow and spear,
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.
There are mothers—and, oh, how sadly their eyes
On their children’s white brows rest!
There are youthful lovers: the maiden lies
In a seeming sleep on the chosen breast;
There are fair wan women with moon-struck air,
The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair.
They eye him not as they pass along,
But his hair stands up with dread,