In the sickening away of the trumpets and the shuddering
of the drums,
She comes, my Lady of Peace, with her grief, her grief,
she comes.
With the blood on her teeth she comes, the lost wild
eyeballs stare;
There is foam in the blood on her lips; ashes are strewn
in her hair.
Like flowers are her dry fingers, pale flowers grey frost
has nipped,
Being empty of hands they held like desolate seas
unshipped.
And she dances, the strayed white woman, she dances a
forlorn tread,
Being sad for the men that are living and glad for the men
that are dead.