I, Too, Saw God Through Mud

And Death Fell With Me, Like A Deepening Moan. And He, Picking A Manner Of Worm, Which Half Had Hid Its Bruises In The Earth, But Crawled No Further, Showed Me Its Feet, The Feet Of Many Men, And The Fresh-severed Head Of It, My Head.

I Tried To Peg Out Soldierly,--no Use! One Dies Of War Like Any Old Disease.

So Secretly, Like Wrongs Hushed-up, They Went.

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall?

Then, When Much Blood Had Clogged Their Chariot-wheels I Would Go Up And Wash Them From Sweet Wells, Even With Truths That Lie Too Deep For Taint. I Would Have Poured My Spirit Without Stint But Not Through Wounds; Not On The Cess Of War.