Battleground

by EDWARD WEISMILLER

Now the dark wings swing past
Pale cities overblown
Where from the drifted stone
The sunlight cracks like glass;

This we were armed to find,
Who from an earth apart
Sought the divided heart,
Fought the dividing wind.

We whom idea drove
Weaken with hurt, to hate;
Now we do not translate
Our first unsparing love.

But half who held the lash
Lie in the winter pools;
And the just fever cools
In their translating flesh.