RED are the rails with rust to-day, Red is each standing wheel; No cheerful clank from the gleaming crank, Or the kiss of steel on steel. No whistle shrill awakes the hill To fling an echo back, Nor piercing beam of a signal's gleam To give, or bar the track. Red are the parent's hearts to-day As they watch the spectre creep, Gaunt skin and bone, while the children moan In their hungry, troubled sleep. No hope is born with the breaking morn, No work—no fire—no food; Another day must be starved away And wept in tears of blood. White is a little childish form, White in the arms of Death; And O, so thin, that thro' the skin The sharp bones show beneath. A tiny mound in the churchyard ground, Apart from the marbles carved; But never a scroll for the little soul, Who went to Heaven—starved. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT SAGAMORE HILL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO HIS LYRE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN WHY DID YOU DEPART AT DUSK? by CLARISSA M. BAILEY NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 9 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT MY BLINDNESS by HERMAN J. D. CARTER THE SPIRITUAL BODY by PHOEBE CARY |