Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean, The track aches only when the rain reminds. The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood The one-armed man his jointed wooden arm. The blinded man sees with his ears and hands As much or more than once with both his eyes. Their war was fought these twenty years ago And now assumes the nature-look of time, As when the morning traveller turn and views His wild night-stumbling carved into a hill. What, then, was war? No mere discord of flags But an infection of the common sky That sagged ominously upon the earth Even when the season was the airiest May. Down pressed the sky, and we, oppressed, thrust out Boastful tongue, clenched fist and valiant yard. Natural infirmiries were out of mode, For Death was young again: patron alone Of healthy dying, premature fate-spasm. Fear made fine bed-fellows. Sick with delight At life's discovered transitoriness, Out youth became all-flesh and waived the mind. Never was such antiqueness of romance, Such ta