The moon has found the path between the trees;
The moon has peopled it with silver dreams,
And those who wake at night to see in its gleams
The fragile wraiths of vanished destinies --
High destinies that Time has diced away,
And then dissolved upon the board of Day.
Between the dusky wavering of the pines,
Between the subtle tenderness of leaves,
The queen who lost her heritage believes
That on her brow the vanished circlet shines,
And bears right proudly in that moonlit dell
The small white neck that met the axe so well.
Or the great Corsican, with hand inthrust,
Rules the still world with condescending smile
That keeps no shadow of a lonely isle,
Or broken battlefields where snapped swords rust,
As, hurrying, when friendly branches lean,
He holds a passionate tryst with Josephine.
But there is one no silver path shall greet,
Nor whispering pines protect. Where he would come
There stands a woman, and her mouth is dumb.
But she points always at the Bloody Feet
That led the legions in a devil's dance
Across the fields of Belgium and of France!
First published in The Bulletin, 15 May 1919
