She watches by the dead.

How many dawns have driven her afar
With the loosed thunder of tempestuous wrong!
Today she will remain.

Silence familiar to the morning star,
Standing, her finger to her lips,
Hushing the battle-cry, the victor's song,
Standing inviolate above the slain.

The fugitive sunlight slips
Over the fragment of a cloud,
And the sky opens wide,
Behold the dawn!

Where is the nightmare now? the angry-browed?
The lowering imminence--the bloody eyed?
Fled, as the threat of midnight, fled away,
Gone, after four dark timeless ages, gone.
Hail the day!

Silence, robed in the morning's golden fleece,
Folding the world's torn wings to stillness, giving
Peace to the dead, and to the living,
Peace.

Tours, 1918