THESE August nights, hushed but for drowsy peep br Of fledglings, tremble with a strange vibration, br A sound too far for hearing, sullen, dire, br Shaking the earth. br Even within the swaying veils of sleep br We are haunted by a horror, a mistrust, br A muffled perturbation, br Vaguely aware br Of prodigies in birth, br Of brooding thunders unbelievable, br Fierce forces that conspire br Against mankind. br We start awake; br The purple glooms, all sweet br With dewy fragrance, bear br Our eyelids down, but still we feel the beat, br Dull, doomful, irretrievable, br Of Europe's marching feet, br Enchanted, blind, br By wizard music led br Over crushed blossoms, through the mocking dust, br To baths of blood and fire. br Beyond the seas, in these hushed hills we dread br That hollow, rhythmic tread br Of nation against nation, br That ancient, bitter thrust br Of war against a world that might be fair br As any golden star that rides the air. br We cannot rest for marching feet that must br Harvest and home forsake, br Inexorably called to take br The road of desolation, br Trampling on hearts that break.