A gentle peaceful gray Steals over the sky And rebukes the sun for his flamboyant gaiety Until his head sinks beneath the western rim— A street lamp opens wide its yellow eye— The staccato stutter of traffic subsides And is lost In the uncanny silence (As of a living thing suddenly touched by death) That hangs over the earth for one brief moment. It is that moment When mankind is wont To lower its weary arms, Lift its drooping shoulders, And listen devoutly To the clangorous call of a church Or to the questioning murmurs of its soul. But this long long line of men, With snarling bayonets aimed straight at the sky, Never heed the voice of either. Stolidly They march, march, march— As if they were strange beings Coming from some alien land That knows of neither church nor soul. |