Kindled by hands of treachery, yet reeking
With blood of friends and neighbours. Serbia, thou
Hast thought us careless and far off; know now
Thy name to us is sudden drums outspeaking
And tortured trumpets crying in the night!
Note.—This poem was sent from Crefeld, but was written in England just before the author left for the front.
A PHILOSOPHY
Only in pages of men’s books I find
Swart villain and fair knight
Closing in fight.