Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world’s heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling ... on a long job of killing.
Sixteen million men.
NOCTURNE IN A DESERTED BRICKYARD
Stuff of the moon
Runs on the lapping sand
Out to the longest shadows.
Under the curving willows,