The Child-Dancers

A bomb has fallen over Notre Dame: Germans have burned another Belgian town: Russians quelled in the east: England in qualm: I closed my eyes, and laid the paper down. Gray ledge and moor-grass and pale bloom of light By pale blue seas! What laughter of a child world-sprite, Sweet as the horns of lone October bees, Shrills the faint shore with mellow, odd delight? What elves are these In smocks gray-blue as sea and ledge, Dancing upon the silvered edge Of darkness—each ecstatic one Making a happy orison, With shining limbs, to the low-sunken sun?— See: now they cease Like nesting birds from flight: Demure and debonair They troop beside their hostess' chair To make their bedtime courtesies: "Spokoinoi notchi!—Gute Nacht! Bon soir! Bon soir!—Good night!" What far-gleaned lives are these Linked in one holy family of art?— Dreams: dreams once Christ and Plato dreamed: How fair their happy shades depart! Dear God! how simple it all seemed, Till once again Before my eyes the red type quivered: Slain: Ten thousand of the enemy.— Then laughter! laughter from the ancient sea Sang in the gloaming: Athens! Galilee! And elfin voices called from the extinguished light:— "Spokoinoi notchi!—Gute Nacht! Bon soir! Bon soir!—Good night!"