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But I Was Looking at the Permanent Stars

Bugles sang, saddening the evening air,
And bugles answered, sorrowful to hear.
 
Voices of boys were by the river—side.
Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.
The shadow of the morrow weighed on men.
 
Voices of old despondency resigned,
Bowed by the shadow of the morrow, slept.
 
( ) dying tone
Of receding voices that will not return.
The wailing of the high far—travelling shells
And the deep cursing of the provoking ( )
 
The monstrous anger of our taciturn guns.
The majesty of the insults of their mouths.

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