Page ten

TEN                      THE WISCONSIN MAGAZINE
           AFTERMATH
Toll out the passing of the day!
The fretted storm-clouds roll away;
The sun, a baneful red on high,
Lends his color to sea and sky:
Then follows night of blackest dark
Till, in the dawn, the early lark
Calls forth the sun from eastern deep,
Washed and refreshed with cleansing sleep,
Lending his glory to a better day.
Toll out the closing of the war!
The clouds of battle lift; and sore
And dead that ne'er again shall rise
With life-blood stain the earth and skies:
Then comes a formless night of pain
And sorrow, till the light again
Returns, and knee of man does bow
Before the Mother of the Now,
Not to the woman but the Wife
Who lends her glory to our better life.
                     -Harold B. Wieben