God but knows what path
This small stream must take,
Through what gleams and glooms
Which the years shall make.
In what ways austere
May these waters glide
Ere they have their part
In the timeless tide!
by Walt Whitman1
IN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,
Of the look at first of the mortally wounded—of that indescribable look;
Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,