softly swift, along in threes,
battalions fierce, would grind the wind.
the grandeur of glory great,
could savour each victory's fate.
arrayed in lines, for wars cut,
soldiers set in uniforms.
adorned and armed to their teeth,
with gloved up hands, booted feet.
Marching Seasons, the war times,
a great army, with more behind.
trembling earth, meek fields of war,
nature humbled, nature blurred
by armies great, who rivers dry,
and wield emblems; glorified.
Another Petrarchan Sonnet