Hans Vogel
The fight is o'er, the day is done,
And thro' the clouds o'erhead
The fingers of the setting sun
Are pointing down blood-red, —
Beneath, on the white battlefield,
Lie strewn the drifts of dead.
No breath, no stir; but everywhere
The cold Frost crawleth slow,
And Frank and Teuton side by side
Lie stiffening in the snow, —
While piteously each marble face
Cleams in the ruby glow.
No sound; but yonder midst the dead
There stands one steed snow-white,
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