And the hoofs struck dumb, where they spurn’d the slain, and the meadow stream ran red;
I saw not the handful of horsemen spur through the dusk, and out of sight,
My soldier son at the Duke’s left hand, and Grey that rode on his right.
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my honey-making bees,
They left the musk, and the marigolds and the scented faint sweet peas;
They gather’d in a darkening cloud, and sway’d, and rose to fly;
A blackness on the summer blue, they swept across the sky.
Gaunt and ghastly with gaping wounds—(my soldier son, alas!)
Footsore and faint, the messenger came halting through the grass.
The wind went by and shook the leaves—the mint-stalk shed its flower—