Classic Poem

After the fighting
Comes not sudden peace, but weariness;
A gloom no lighting
Of little lamps of jest or speech unravels,
But for the brain and body endless travels,
Twisting and turning like the lovers hurled
For punishment athwart the underworld,
Twisting and turning and no respite sighting.
After the living
Comes not relief, but a grey level gloom,
When the heart beats as in a padded room
With wild shapes moving —
Silence imploring and from silence flying,
Praying to life and all athirst for dying.
Tearing lost dreams and for the torn dreams weeping,
Fearing to wake, tumultuously sleeping.
. . . . . .
Death's a poor leech with worn-out simples striving
To heal in vain the malady of living.