AT an hour before the rosy-fingered Morning should come To wonder again what meant these sties, These wailing shots, these glaring eyes, These moping mum, Through the black reached strange long rosy fingers All at one aim Protending, and bending: down they swept, Successions of similars after leapt And bore red flame To one small ground of the eastern distance, And thunderous touched. East then and west false dawns fan-flashed And shut, and gaped; false thunders clashed. Who stood and watched Caught piercing horror from the desperate pit Which with ten men Was centre of this. The blood burnt, feeling The fierce truth there and the last appealing, "Us? Us? Again?" Nor rosy dawn at last appearing Through the icy shade Might mark without trembling the new deforming Of earth that had seemed past further storming. Her fingers played, One thought, with something of human pity On six or seven Whose looks were hard to understand, But that they ceased to care what hand Lit earth and heaven. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SANDALPHON by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE BLACK PANTHER by JOHN HALL WHEELOCK THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONAUTICA): THE SAILING OF THE ARGO by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS ON THE ART OF WRITING by PHILIP AYRES THE LEADY'S TOWER by WILLIAM BARNES THE IVORY GATE; LOVE-IN-IDLENESS by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |