In Black And Red

The hush of death is on the night. The corn, That loves to whisper to the wind; the leaves, That dance with it, are silent: one perceives No motion mid the fields, as dry as horn. What light is that? It cannot be the morn! Yet in the east it seems its witchcraft weaves A fiery rose. Look! how it grows! it heaves And flames and tosses! 'Tis a burning barn! And now the night is rent with shouts and shots. Dark forms and faces hurry past. The gloom Gallops with riders. Homes are less than straw Before this madness: human lives, mere lots Flung in and juggled from the cap of Doom, Where Crime stamps yelling on the face of Law.