RED are the rails with rust to-day, Red is each standing wheel; No cheerful clank from the gleaming crank, Or the kiss of steel on steel. No whistle shrill awakes the hill To fling an echo back, Nor piercing beam of a signal's gleam To give, or bar the track. Red are the parent's hearts to-day As they watch the spectre creep, Gaunt skin and bone, while the children moan In their hungry, troubled sleep. No hope is born with the breaking morn, No work—no fire—no food; Another day must be starved away And wept in tears of blood. White is a little childish form, White in the arms of Death; And O, so thin, that thro' the skin The sharp bones show beneath. A tiny mound in the churchyard ground, Apart from the marbles carved; But never a scroll for the little soul, Who went to Heaven—starved. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING STORM by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS GEORGE MOSES HORTON, MYSELF by GEORGE MOSES HORTON IN A GARDEN by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY by WALT WHITMAN SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 4 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY THE AWAKENING OF THE TREES by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |