more than all, the dead-sure silence, The pivot again. There, at the axis Pain, or love, or grief Sleep on speed; in dead certainty; Pure relief. There, at the pivot Time sleeps again. No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected Silence of men. 

  

  

       ON THE MARCH     

 WE are out on the open road. Through the low west window a cold light flows On the floor where never my numb feet trode Before; onward the strange road goes.       Soon the spaces of the western sky With shutters of sombre cloud will close. But we'll still be together, this road and I, Together, wherever the long road goes. The wind chases by us, and over the corn Pale shadows flee from us as if from their foes. Like a snake we thresh on the long, forlorn Land, as onward the long road goes. From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out; Through the poplars the night-wind blows; Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed about As the wind asks whither the wan road goes. Away in the distance wakes a lamp. Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows. But they come no nearer, and still we tramp      Onward, wherever the strange road goes. Beat after beat falls sombre and dull. The wind is unchanging, not one of us knows What will be in the final lull When we find the place where this dead road goes. For something must come, since we pass and pass Along in the coiled, convulsive throes Of this marching, along with the invisible grass That goes wherever this old road goes. Perhaps we shall come to oblivion. Perhaps we shall march till our tired toes Tread over the edge of the pit, and we're gone Down the endless slope where the last road goes. If so, let us forge ahead, straight on If we're going to sleep the sleep with those That fall forever, knowing none Of this land whereon the wrong road goes. 

  

  

       BOMBARDMENT     

 THE TOWN has opened to the sun. Like a flat red lily with a million petals She unfolds, she comes undone. A sharp sky brushes upon The myriad glittering chimney-tips As she gently exhales to the sun. Hurrying creatures run Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower. What is it they shun? A dark bird falls from the sun. It 

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