Poetry Archives

I heard the rumbling guns. I saw the smoke,
  The unintelligible shock of hosts that still,
Far off, unseeing, strove and strove again:
  And Beauty flying naked down the hill.

From morn to eve: and then stern night cried Peace!
  And shut the strife in darkness; all was still.
Then slowly crept a triumph on the dark—
  And I heard Beauty singing up the hill.