The helmet on his head
Has melted flesh and bone
And forged a mask instead
That always is alone.
War has rased its brow
Without a single scar
And left a silent vow
Upon it, like a star.
Its space-devouring eyes
Pass me and hurry on,
Quick as the bullet flies
Until the target’s won.
Just now I do not know
What worlds its musings kill …
Rivers of sweetness low
From every little hull;
And we are walking there,
And we are sitting here,
Waiting for what we were
To speak and to appear.
But he can never come home,
Nor I get to the place
Where, tame, the terrors roam
Whose shadows fill his face.