The valley

A quiet valley

Rich and green

Traversed the soul with God.

And on the land

Lay thick and sweet

The smell of blood and sod.

A lack of breath,

My pallor wane,

I was assuaged to find

That God against the soul had won

And that who lost was I.

And as the plumes fade

Dawn to dusk

And paths of stone lie

Cold and still,

Far from the battle flung

Was mine own accomplishment.

—Whitney

Writing