  Menace, hidden, but pulsing in the air of night: Then a throbbing thunder, split and seared With the scarlet flashes of innumerable shells, And against it, suddenly, a shell, closer; A purr that changes to a whine Like a beast of prey that has missed its kill, And again, closer. But even in the thunder of the guns There is a silence: and the soul groweth still. Yea, it is cloaked in stillness: And it is not fear. But the torn and screaming air Trembles under the onset of warring angels With terrible and beautiful faces; That burden the night with oppression, To be but the creatures of its own lusts. |
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