Arachne: A Literary Journal. No. 1
Christoph — Vineta
The wind blew strongly like the voice of Fate
Through cheerless sunlight, and the black yawl strained
And creaked across the sullen slate
Of Zuider Zee. That night it rained.
The Hook of Holland drenched in diamonds lay
Far southward: but the exile coming home
Turns back to hours like golden tissues stacked away
And sees no more the sulky, weltering foam,
But only roses, or white honey in the comb.
Fire in the olive groves throughout the night,
And charred twigs crackling like the living coal;
The flame-splash spread across the wounded height;
Came flash on cannon flash and thunder-roll;
Then through the black smoke roared the bomber flight:
He crouched part-stricken in his shallow hole.
Strangely, at last he put his arms aside
And seemed to drift away. It was the rising tide
That heaped its star-shot depths upon a sunken town
Of brittle amber. There he thought to drown
Against a church haled over on its side,
So with torpid ghosts he laid him down;
But pain and breath were not so easily denied.