THE battle-smoke still fouled the day, With bright disaster flaming through; Unchecked, absorbed, she held her way— The whispering death still past her flew. A cross of red was on her sleeve; And here she stayed, the wound to bind, And there, the fighting soul relieve, That strove its Unknown Peace to find. A cross of red ... yet one has dreamed Of her he loved and left in tears; But unto dying sight she seemed A visitant from other spheres. The whispering death—it nearer drew, It holds her heart in strict arrest ... And where was one, are crosses two— A crimson cross is on her breast! |