小捆枯萎的草,竟没有revealed Thy story, lo! I see thee once more green And growing on the battle-field, On that last day that ever thou didst grow! I look down thro' thy blades and see between A little lifted clover leaf Stand like a cresset: and I know If this were morn there should be seen In its chalice such a gem As decks no mortal diadem Poised with a lapidary skill Which merely living doth fulfil And pass the exquisite strain of subtlest human will. But in the sun it lifteth up A dry unjewelled cup, Therefore I see that day doth not begin; And yet I know its beaming lord Hath not yet passed the hill of noon, Or thy lush blades Would be more dry and thin, And every blade a thirsty sword Edged with the sharp desire that soon Should draw the silver blood of all the shades. I feel 't is summer. This whereon I stand Is not a hill, nor, as I think, a vale; The soil is soft upon the generous land, Yet not as where the meeting streams take hand Under the mossy mantle of the dale. Such grass is for the meadow. If I try To lift my heavy eyelids, as in dreams A power is on them, and I know not why. Thou art but part; the whole is unconfest: Beholding thee I long to know the rest. As one expands the bosom with a sigh, I stretch my sight's horizon; but it seems, Ere it can widen round the mystery, To close in swift contraction, like the breast. The air is held, as by a charm, In an enforcèd silence, as like sound As the dead man the living. 'T is so still, I listen for it loud. And when I force my eyes from thy sole place And see a wider space, Above, around, In ragged glory like a torn And golden-natured cloud, O'er the dim field a living smoke is warm; As in a city on a sabbath morn The hot and summer sunshine goes abroad Swathed in the murky air, As if a god Enrobed himself in common flesh and blood, Our heavy flesh and blood, And here and there As unaware Thro' the dull lagging limbs of mortal make, That keep unequal time, the swifter essence brake. But hark a bugle horn! And, ere it ceases, such a shock As if the plain were iron, and thereon An iron hammer, heavy as a hill, Swung by a monstrous force, in stroke came down And deafened Heaven. I feel a swound Of every sense bestunned. The rent ground seems to rock, And all the definite vision, in such wise As a dead giant borne on a swift river, Seems sliding off for ever, When my reviving eyes, As one that holds a spirit by his eye With set inexorable stare, Fix thee: and so I catch, as by the hair, The form of that great dream that else had drifted by. I know not what that form may be; The lock I hold is all I see, And thou, small sheaf! art all the battle-field to me. The wounded silence hath not time to heal When see! upon thy sod The round stroke of a charger's heel With echoing thunder shod! As the night-lightning shows A mole upon a momentary face, So, as that gnarled hoof strikes the indented place, I see it, and it goes! And I hear the squadrons trot thro' the heavy shell and shot, And wheugh! but the grass is gory! Forward ho! blow to blow, at the foe in they go, And 'tis hieover heigho for glory! The rushing storm is past, But hark! upon its track the far drums beat, And all the earth that at thy roots thou hast Stirs, shakes, shocks, sounds, with quick strong tramp of feet In time unlike the last. Footing to tap of drum The charging columns come; And as they come their mighty martial sound Blows on before them as a flaming fire Blows in the wind; for, as old Mars in ire Strode o'er the world encompassed in a cloud, So the swift legion, o'er the quaking ground, Strode in a noise of battle. Nigh and nigher I heard it, like the long swell gathering loud What-time a land-wind blowing from the main Blows to the burst of fury and is o'er, As if an ocean on one fatal shore Fell in a moment whole, and threw its roar Whole to the further sea: and as the strain Of my strong sense cracked in the deafened ear, And all the rushing tumult of the plain Topped its great arch above me, a swift foot Was struck between thy blades to the struck root, And lifted: as into a sheath A sudden sword is thrust and drawn again Ere one can gasp a breath. I was so near, I saw the wrinkles of the leather grain, The very cobbler's stitches, and the wear By which I knew the wearer trod not straight; An honest shoe it seemed that had been good To mete the miles of any country lane, Nor did one sign explain 'T was made to wade thro' blood. My shoe, soft footstooled on this hearth, so far From strife, hath such a patch, and as he past His broken shoelace w