The sunshine over Brussels will be mine,
But for a moment ere it pales its hue,
And slowly deepens into one grim sign
Of thunder on the field of Waterloo.
The lower thunderbolts of men have spent
The death-doom of their anger there, the plough
Follows the mission of the sword that lent
A red strength to the soil it cleaves. And now
There will be golden harvest. Nature craves
No boon from men. She only needs one spring
To work her miracles, which, ere it pass,
Has woven in the joy of fashioning,
Over a battle-field and dead men's graves,
The green forgetfulness of growing grass.