The Days

A long grim corridor--a sullen bar
Of light athwart the darkness--where no fleet
Pale sunshine spreads for dark his winding sheet
A light, not born of noon nor placid star
Glows lurid thro' the gloom--while from afar,
Beats marching of innumerable feet.
Is this the place where tragic armies meet?
The throb of terror that presages war?--
I strain to see, then softly on my sight
There falls the vision, manifold they come--
White listless Day chained to her brother Night--
Their hands are shackled and their lips are dumb,
And as they meet the air where each one dies,
They turn and smile at me--with weary eyes.