[Written for the Sentinel]

Coming Morn

Across the earth the fogs hang low and drear,And tardy-footed morn delays to come,While death stalks boldly where the bullets hum,Save when it meeteth one that knows no fear:

The bugle-call of Spirit, sweet yet clear,Will pierce the mists of "chaos and old night"Till startled sense awakes to primal light,And e'en the seeming dead shall hear,—shall hear!

February 12, 1916

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