Birdless, the blood red dawn the engines roar
Opens the sleeping barracks. Synchronized
All windows leap with light, and every door
Streams with the troops of sleep demobilized
To rank and roster and a starting day,
Whistle and the faltering bugles’ scream,
Roll call and running wind—and seas away,
Far as a finished minute—what was the dream
Where the last gate was reached and every field
Crackled with flowers, and far across the bay
Liners and merchantmen whistled and wheeled
-And boiled on flame like birds and fell away?
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