The great gold room is heavy with the scent Of flowers crushed by dancers, and smoke, and wine; The little tables with clustered glasses shine. And always through the buzzing merriment And through the thump of tired musicians' play I hear the drums an ocean's breadth away— Away—and shaded candles hiss and dance Into the air—and burst—my pulses quiver— I smell the stinking field, and 'cross the river I see a fringe of mud-swamped guns that glance When shells come whining toward the bitter pit Of ploughed-up reddened muck and powder-grit— Ploughed-up and red with blood. But what is blood To placid prattlers in another world, Who only recall the showy flags unfurled And waving scarfs, as on the curb they stood Some years ago and watched a regiment pass With jaunty step and cheerful blare of brass? Yes, what is blood to those in puppet-land? Hung on a new gilt cord they jerk and swing Compliant with the propitious breeze and sing Self-satisfied thoughtless tunes, nor seek the hand That strings them there—discreet torpidity, With ears that hear not, eyes that will not see. There is a sudden stir, and waiters run To catch a man whose flabby face goes grey. "He's dead!" the whisper comes. The musicians' play Stops. A few white-lipped women have begun To cry a little. And all are soon outside. Yet this day twenty thousand men have died. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RESPECTABILITY by ROBERT BROWNING THE SLEEPER by EDGAR ALLAN POE WINTER RAIN by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE BEACHCOMBER by MILDRED DOSCH BANTA YOUTH'S AMBITION by ANNA GRACE BOYLES WHY TELL? by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN PASSION WEEK: SATURDAY by JOHN BYROM |