The battle-smoke still fouled the day, br With bright disaster flaming through; br Unchecked, absorbed, she held her way— br The whispering death still past her flew. br br br A cross of red was on her sleeve; br And here she stayed, the wound to bind, br And there, the fighting soul relieve, br That strove its Unknown Peace to find. br br br A cross of red . . . yet one has dreamed br Of her he loved and left in tears; br But unto dying sight she seemed br A visitant from other spheres. br br br The whispering death—it nearer drew, br It holds her heart in strict arrest . .