by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850‐1894)
The lamps now glitter down the street; Faintly sound the falling feet; And the blue even slowly falls About the garden trees and walls. Now in the falling of the gloom The red fire paints the empty room: And warmly on the roof it looks, And flickers on the back of books. Armies march by tower and spire Of cities blazing, in the fire; -- Till as I gaze with staring eyes, The armies fall, the lustre dies. Then once again the glow returns, Again the phantom city burns; And down the red-hot valley, lo! The phantom armies marching go! Blinking embers, tell me true Where are these armies marching to, And what the burning city is That crumbles in your furnaces!