In the pleasant time of Pentecost, <br />By the little river Kyll, <br />I followed the angler's winding path <br />Or waded the stream at will, <br />And the friendly fertile German land <br />Lay round me green and still. <br /> <br />But all day long on the eastern bank <br />Of the river cool and clear, <br />Where the curving track of the double rails <br />Was hardly seen though near, <br />The endless trains of German troops <br />Went rolling down to Trier. <br /> <br />They packed the windows with bullet heads <br />And caps of hodden gray; <br />They laughed and sang and shouted loud <br />When the trains were brought to a stay; <br />They waved their hands and sang again <br />As they went on their iron way. <br /> <br />No shadow fell on the smiling land, <br />No cloud arose in the sky; <br />I could hear the river's quiet tune <br />When the trains had rattled by; <br />But my heart sank low with a heavy sense <br />Of trouble,--I knew not why. <br /> <br />Then came I into a certain field <br />Where the devil's paint-brush spread <br />'Mid the gray and green of the rolling hills <br />A flaring splotch of red,-- <br />An evil omen, a bloody sign, <br />And a token of many dead. <br /> <br />I saw in a vision the field-gray horde <br />Break forth at the devil's hour, <br />And trample the earth into crimson mud <br />In the rage of the Will to Power,-- <br />All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll, <br />At the sign of the blood-red flower.<br /><br />Henry Van Dyke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-red-flower/
