Some Verses - Helen Hay Whitney - Bog

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-