Sir Walter

I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot, Covered with silence and forgetfulness. Death roams in cities’ smoke, and in still night, When men sleep in their beds, walketh about. How many in walled cities lie and groan, Turning themselves upon their beds, Talking with Death, answering his hard demands! How many walk in darkness, terrors are round The curtains of their beds, destruction is Ready at the door! How many sleep In earth, covered with stones and deathy dust, Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more! Yet death is terrible, though borne on angels’ wings. How terrible then is the field of Death, Where he doth rend the vault of heaven, And shake the gates of hell! O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky, Though sunshine light it, seems to me as pale As the pale fainting man on his death-bed, Whose face is shown by light of sickly taper. It makes me sad and sick at very heart; Thousands must fall to-day.