Classic Poem

The moon, like a white-foot girl
Stirs the dark pool of the sky
To a froth and foam of cloud . . .

The hideousness, the filth, and the mud,—
All are hidden now.
And I remember hours when the war
Was something more than an interchange of days
And a dull procession of nights.

Do you remember?—a night when we two walking
Talked of the hopes of men,
Of old worlds clashing and new worlds born,
And all the while beauty went sighing
Through the dim paths and branches of our minds.