52
“Men’s heads like bullets dance the bloody plain, ownerless arms and legs insens’ible lie, and quiv’ering entrails tell of mortal pain, and faces fade and life’s fair colours fly.
Lost is that impious host, whose heapèd slain roll o’er the green’ery rills of crimson dye; whereby the grasses lose their white and green and nought but glow of crimson gore is seen.