Schedule slippage strikes again.
Some longer fragments this week:
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh;
But those the candles light are not as those.
It is in truth iniquity on high;
But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
then should the voice of liberty be mute?
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle.
I did not lose my heart in summer’s even,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn;
No later light has lightened up my heaven,
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn.
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed
Lay in the hands of others; they were small,
they did not stop to think they died instead.
But thine eternal summer shall not fade,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.