AtLast_[07]

Such lonely men to hold a line Away from hearth along some weir Fall to vicious killing times Which starve hope and feed despair. Mute, unmoved, and coldly distant, She faced about, as I endeavored To engage a loving instant Eluding me forever. Embraced, her glance avoids my gaze. Her ear evades my hungered lips. She coldly lets my dead hands graze The slopes that grace her fertile hips. This meadow of my darling rises Soft ingrained of nature's prizes Up her supple rolling hills From which her loving suckling fills. On the top, in no man's land, Along the lines from trench to trench We chains of dismal wretches stand With arms around this phantom wench. As terror dies, so undiscerning Exhausted men Exhume their buried yearnings. Thus embracing Spirits, gracing Vacant circled arms enhance The lonely soldier's empty dance.