REEDS, snake-like, coiled in the mist 
Where the low fog drives: 
The muddy cough of the stream that strives 
To free its throat from the clot of reed, 
As they fight it out the water and the weed-- 
While the fog, above, takes turn and twist: 
Men, these are your lives!

Wild Geese across the moon: 
As some hand that unrolls 
And scratches black names upon blood-red scrolls; 
So seem these shadows, dipping, dying, 
Black shapes on the red moon, screaming, flying, 
Till the fog blots out, or late or soon: 
Men, these are your souls!