Explore "1915" by Richard Aldington on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The limbs of gods, / Still, veined marble, / Rest heavily in sleep / Under a saffron twilight.
Not for them battle, / Severed limbs, death, and a cry of victory; / Not for them strife / And a torment of storm.
A vast breast moves slowly, / The great thighs shift, / The stone eyelids rise; / The slow tongue speaks:
"_Only a rain of bright dust;_ / _In the outer air;_ / _A little whisper of wind;_ / _Sleep; rest; forget._"
Bright dust of battle! / A little whisper of dead souls!