The Days

A long grim corridor--a sullen bar Of light athwart the darkness--where no fleet Pale sunshine spreads for dark his winding sheet A light, not born of noon nor placid star Glows lurid thro' the gloom--while from afar, Beats marching of innumerable feet. Is this the place where tragic armies meet? The throb of terror that presages war?-- I strain to see, then softly on my sight There falls the vision, manifold they come-- White listless Day chained to her brother Night-- Their hands are shackled and their lips are dumb, And as they meet the air where each one dies, They turn and smile at me--with weary eyes.