Rain down their first sweet April showers
On budding branches; when the morn
Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,
I've cursed the night when I was born.
But now I thank God, and am glad
For what I cannot see this day
—The young men crippled, old, and sad,
With faces burnt and torn away;
Or those who, rich and old,
Have battened on the slaughter,
Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,
Are creased in purple laughter!
January, 1919.
WORLD-HYMN TO MOLOCH
Holy Moloch, blessed lord,
Hatred to our souls impart.
Put the heathen to the sword,
Wound and pierce each contrite heart.
Never more shall darkness fall
But it seems a funeral pall;
Never shall the red sun rise
But to red and swollen eyes.
In the centuries that roll,
Slowly grinding out our tears,
Often thou hast taken toll;
Never till these latter years
Have all nations lost the fray;
Lead not thou our feet astray.
Never till the present time
Have we offered all we hold,
With one gesture, mad, sublime,
Sons and lovers, lands and gold.
Must we then still pray to thee,
Moloch, for a victory?
Eternal Moloch, strong to slay,
Do not seek to heal or save.
Lord, it is the better way
Swift to send them to the grave.
Those of us too old to go
Send our sons to face the foe,
But, O lord! we must remain
Here, to pray and sort the slain.
In every land the widows weep,
In every land the children cry.
Other gods are lulled to sleep,
All the starving peoples die.
What is left to offer you?
Thou, O Sacred King of Death!
God of Blood and Lord of Guile,
Do not let us waste our breath,
Cast on us thy crimson smile.
Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,
Send at least one victory.
All the men in every land
Pray to thee through battle's din,
Swiftly now to show thy hand,
Pray that soon one side may win.
Under sea and in the sky,
Everywhere our children die;
Laughter, happiness and light
Perished in a single night.
In every land the heaving tides
Wash the sands a dreadful red,
In every land the tired sun hides
Under heaps and hills of dead.
In spite of all we've offered up
Must we drink and drain the cup?
Everywhere the dark floods rise,
Everywhere our hearts are torn.
Every day a new Christ dies,
Every day a devil's born.
Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,
Send at least one victory.
1917.