ON RECEIVING THE FIRST NEWS OF THE WAR
Snow is a strange white word;
No ice or frost
Has asked of bud or bird
For Winter’s cost.
Yet ice and frost and snow
From earth to sky
This Summer land doth know;
No man knows why.
In all men’s hearts it is:
Some spirit old
Hath turned with malign kiss
Our lives to mould.
Red fangs have torn His face,
God’s blood is shed:
He mourns from His lone place
His children dead.
O ancient crimson curse!
Corrode, consume;
Give back this universe
Its pristine bloom.
Cape Town, 1914.