I made a song in my love's likeness
From colours of my quietude,
From trees whose blossoms shine no less
Than butterflies in the wild-wood.
I laid claim on all beauty
Under the sun to praise her wonder,
Till the noise of war swept over me,
Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder.
The angel of death hath swift wings,
I heard him strip the huddled trees
Overhead, as a hornet sings,
And whip the grass about my knees.
Down we crouched in the parched dust,
Down beneath that deadly rain:
Dead still I lay, as lie one must
Who hath a bullet in his brain.
Dead they left me: but my soul, waking,
Quietly laughed at their distress
Who guessed not that I still was making
That new song in my love's likeness.