Rhymes

Poetry: A Magazine of Verses

Night came.

And the battle's surging range

Receded like a tired sea.

That brought with it many dead and strange;

And all the dead lay there heavily.

The grey horse picked its way

Past great fists starkly warning it back;

In a forign land the dead men lay

Where it stepped over grass that was matted and black.

And he upon the grey horse sat,

Looked down on the colors moist and frayed,

Saw silver like shivered glass ground flat,

Saw iron wither, and helmets drink,

And swords stand stiff in armor's chink;

Saw tattered hands waving tattered brocade...

And saw them not.

After the tulmut of battle her rode

Onward as though in a trance, alone;

And with passion in his warm cheeks  glowed,

Like those of a lover his grey eyes shone.

-Maria Rilke