When the sun is setting low
when men return from fields, fallow,
pocked and mocked and scarred and bruised,
women come eclipse their doom.
Wash the sweat and blood away;
the dust of those ones slain will stay.
Men, lay your heads in hands fair white,
milky as the purest light.
Like a babe there suckling might,
hear the lullabies of night.
Here, nurse the visions 'fore your eyes
lest they haunt your daily strides.
Dauntless men, your pride besets
the good health of your hearts-here, rest
the welfare of your souls at stake
of hard'ning locked in your caskets, safe.
So you've come back from the deed
you suppose keeps our hands clean?
Alas, but by your kiss we draw
the breath of sorrow on us all.