Rondeau Of A Conscientious Objector.

The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous sands     And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.     I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands;     To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I detest.     I force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed     Into ooze, and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands     As I make my way in twilight now to rest.     The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous sands.     A twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands     Defending the memory of leaves and the happy round nest.     But mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands     And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.     All day has the clank of iron on iron distressed     The nerve-bare place. Now a little silence expands     And a gasp of relief. But the soul is still compressed:     I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands.     The hours have ceased to fall, and a star commands     Shadows to cover our stricken manhood, and blest     Sleep to make us forget: but he understands:     To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I detest.