Richard Aldington, '1915'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

1915

The limbs of gods,
Still, veined marble,
Rest heavily in sleep
Under a saffron twilight.

Not for them battle,
Severed limbs, death, and a cry of victory;
Not for them strife
And a torment of storm.

A vast breast moves slowly,
The great thighs shift,
The stone eyelids rise;
The slow tongue speaks:

“Only a rain of bright dust;
In the outer air;
A little whisper of wind;
Sleep; rest; forget.”

Bright dust of battle!
A little whisper of dead souls!

By Richard Aldington