A riven wall like a face half torn away
Stares blankly at the evening:
And from a window like a crooked mouth
It barks at the sunset sky.
And over there, beyond,
On plains where night has settled,
Ten-like encampments of vaporous blue smoke or mist,
Three men are riding.
One of them looks and sees the sky:
One of them looks and sees the earth:
The last one looks and sees nothing at all.
They ride on.
One of them pauses and says, “It is death.”
Another pauses and says, “It is life.”
The last one pauses and says, “‘ Tis a dream.”
His bridle shakes.
The sky
Is filled with oval violet-tinted clouds
Through which the sun long settled strikes at random,
Enkindling here and there blotched circles of rosy light.
These are poppies,
Unclosing immense corollas,
Waving the horsemen on.
Over the earth, upheaving, folding,
They ride: their bridles shake:
One of them sees the sky is red:
One of them sees the earth is dark:
The last man sees he rides to his death,
Yet he says nothing at all.