It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
     Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
     Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
     Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
     Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
     Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
     With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
     Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
     And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;
     With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
     Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
     And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
     "Strange, friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn."
     "None," said the other, "Save the undone years,
     The hopelessness.  Whatever hope is yours,
     Was my life also; I went hunting wild
     After the wildest beauty in the world,
     Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
     But mocks the steady running of the hour,
     And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
     For by my glee might many men have laughed,
     And of my weeping something has been left,
     Which must die now.  I mean the truth untold,
     The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
     Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
     Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be