II
I’ll ever hear that death-portending sound
And see the dead as side by side they lie,
And see the desolation wrought around
And hear the dying’s dissolution cry;
And see the houses bursting into flame
And those within consumed in tongues of fire,
And that long line of young, and old, and lame
Move slowly on when ordered to retire
From their wrecked homes to seek some safe retreat.
With falt’ring step and slow and wearied gait;
And see the motor cars whirl down the street
Full laden with their bloody, human freight:
For not, till in my breast the spirit dies
Will these sad scenes evanish from my eyes.