A headsail jumps through the thinning haze.
The whole hull follows, till—broad around us—
The clean-swept ocean says:—“Go your ways!”
How do we know, when the long fight rages,
On the old, stale front that we cannot shake;
And it looks as though we were locked for ages,
How do we know they are going to break?
There is no lull in the level firing,
Nothing has shifted except the sun.
Yet we can feel they are tiring, tiring.