Ernest Miller Hemingway

On Seeing an Time-Worn - Civil War Dyeingwith My Love

  I

  the cannoneer is dead,

  and all the troops;

  the conceited drummer boy

 blunt than the tombs

  lies in a net of red;

  and under leaves, bugs twitch antennae

  deciding which way to move

  under the cool umbrella of decay;

  the wind rills down like lank water

  and searches under clothing,

  sifting and sorry;

  …clothing anchored with bushy bones

  in noonday sleep

  like men gone down on footway, resting;

  yet an hour ago

  tree-shadow and man-shadow

  showed their outline against the sun—

  yet now, not a man amongst them

  can single out the reason

  that moved them down toward nothing;

  and I think mostly of some woman far off

  arranging important jars on some second shelf

  and abuzzing a dry, sun-lit tune.

  2

  outside, the quick storm turns the night slowly

  backwards

  and sends it shifting to old shores,

  and everywhere are bones…rib bones and light,

  and grass, grass leaning left;

  and we hump our backs despite the wet like living things,

  and this one with me now

  holds my yearning like a packet

  slips it into her purse with her powders and potions

  pulls up a apeak stocking, chatters, touches her hair:

  it’s raining, oh damn it all, it’s raining!

  and on the battlefield the rocks are wet and cool,

  the fine grains of rock glint moon-fire,

  and she bunnes under a small green hat

  like a crown

  and walks like a gawky marionette

  into the jets of rain.