Someplace III A field of flowers Rousing under remnants of the dawn: Out there! from death, I rose Above the silent many – A distant will-o'-the-wisp Reflecting under airs of minor ninths – How rich the ambience they threw!
What theme of prosody Had rendered me? – Tho’ silent were its words: A broken soul in pulsing pain – Thou mustn’t guess what goes behind The sick and ghostly screen of war!