Crimson Pool

Even you, dark pool-- Even you feel death. On your soft brown surface There are deep reflections Of a fiery breath. To the waiting forest Death does not come creeping As it comes to men; It comes shouting, waving banners, Burning out its way with torches, Hanging garlands now and then. All the green walls of your silence Hung with crimson, Even you, dark pool-- Even you feel death. On your soft brown surface There are deep reflections Of a fiery breath.