THESE August nights, hushed but for drowsy peep <br />Of fledglings, tremble with a strange vibration, <br />A sound too far for hearing, sullen, dire, <br />Shaking the earth. <br />Even within the swaying veils of sleep <br />We are haunted by a horror, a mistrust, <br />A muffled perturbation, <br />Vaguely aware <br />Of prodigies in birth, <br />Of brooding thunders unbelievable, <br />Fierce forces that conspire <br />Against mankind. <br />We start awake; <br />The purple glooms, all sweet <br />With dewy fragrance, bear <br />Our eyelids down, but still we feel the beat, <br />Dull, doomful, irretrievable, <br />Of Europe's marching feet, <br />Enchanted, blind, <br />By wizard music led <br />Over crushed blossoms, through the mocking dust, <br />To baths of blood and fire. <br />Beyond the seas, in these hushed hills we dread <br />That hollow, rhythmic tread <br />Of nation against nation, <br />That ancient, bitter thrust <br />Of war against a world that might be fair <br />As any golden star that rides the air. <br />We cannot rest for marching feet that must <br />Harvest and home forsake, <br />Inexorably called to take <br />The road of desolation, <br />Trampling on hearts that break.<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/marching-feet-2/
