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In the pleasant time of Pentecost, By the little river Kyll, I followed the angler's winding pathOr waded the stream at will.And the friendly fertile German landLay round me green and still.But all day long on the eastern bankOf the river cool and clear, Where the curving track of the double railsWas hardly seen though near, The endless trains of German troopsWent rolling down to Trier.They packed the windows with bullet headsAnd caps of hodden gray;They laughed and sang and shouted loudWhen the trains were brought to a stay;They waved their hands and sang againAs they went on their iron way.No shadow fell on the smiling land, No cloud arose in the sky;I could hear the river's quiet tuneWhen the trains had rattled by;But my heart sank low with a heavy senseOf trouble, -I knew not why.Then came I into a certain fieldWhere the devil's paint-brush spread6'Mid the gray and green of the rolling hillsA flaring splotch of red, An evil omen, a bloody sign, And a token of many dead.I saw in a vision the field-gray hordeBreak forth at the devil's hour, And trample the earth into crimson mudIn the rage of the Will to Power, -All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll, At the sign of the blood-

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