Slowly among the wounded and the slain <br />The gleaners take the harvest of the kings, <br />But harvest-song no joyous maiden sings, <br />And crimson fingers lift a crimson grain. <br />Where darkness and the powers of darkness reign, <br />They bend above unutterable things, <br />As far away the restless searchlight swings <br />Its ghastly ray along the burdened plain. <br /> <br />Well seems it that they wear a cross of red, <br />But better seems it that this earth should bear <br />That blazon in the concourse of the stars, <br />(Ere the Night conquer and the sun fall dead) <br />And 'mid dark Signs and warring heavens glare, <br />Disastrous, with the bloody light of Mars.<br /><br />George Sterling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aftermath-9/
