More Songs by the Fighting Men
When came the silvered silence of the night
I stole to casements over scented lawns,
And softly sang of love and love's delight
To mute white marble fauns.
Oft in the tavern parlour I would sing
Of morning sun upon the mountain vine,
And, calling for a chorus, sweep the string
In praise of good red wine.
I played with all the toys the gods provide,
I sang my songs and made glad holiday.
Now I have cast my broken toys aside
And flung my lute away.
A singer once, I now am fain to weep.
Within my soul I feel strange music swell,
Vast chants of tragedy too deep—too deep
For my poor lips to tell.
The Secret
WHAT is the secret—the secret
That lies at the heart of it all—
The surge of the stars, the cry of the wind,
And the beat of the sea,
And the surge, and the cry, and the beat of the soul in me?
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