WE ARE WITH FRANCE
We are with France—not by the ties
Of treaties made with tongue in cheek,
The ancient diplomatic lies,
The paper promises that seek
To hide the long maturing guile,
Planning destruction with a smile.
We are with France by bonds no seal
Of the stamped wax and tape can make,
Bonds no surprise of ambushed steel
With sneering devil's laughter break;
Nor need we any plighted speech
For our deep concord, each with each.
As ancient comrades tried and true
No new exchange of vows demand,
Each knows of old what each will do,
Nor needs to talk to understand;
So France with us and we with France—
Enough the gesture and the glance.
In a shared dream our loves began,
Together fought one fight and won,
The Dream Republican of Man,
And now as then our dream is one;
Still as of old our hearts unite
To dream and battle for the Right.
Nor memories alone are ours,
But purpose for the Future strong,
Across the seas two signal towers,
Keeping stern watch against the Wrong;
Seeking, with hearts of deep accord,
A better wisdom than the Sword.
We are with France, in brotherhood
Not of the spirit's task alone,
But kin in laughter of the blood:
Where Paris glitters in the sun,
A second home, like boys, we find,
And leave our grown-up cares behind.
SATAN: 1920
I read there is a man who sits apart,
A sort of human spider in his den,
Who meditates upon a fearful art—
The swiftest way to slay his fellow men.
Behind a mask of glass he dreams his hell:
With chemic skill, to pack so fierce a dust
Within the thunderbolt of one small shell—
Sating in vivid thought his shuddering lust—
Whole cities in one gasp of flame shall die,
Swept with an all-obliterating rain
Of sudden fire and poison from the sky;
Nothing that breathes be left to breathe again—
And only gloating eyes from out the air
Watching the twisting fires, and ears attent
For children's cries and woman's shrill despair,
The crash of shrines and towers in ruin rent.
High in the sun the sneering airmen glide,
Glance at wrist-watches: scarce a minute gone
And London, Paris, or New York has died!
Scarce twice they look, then turn and hurry on.
And, far away, one in his quiet room
Dreams of a fiercer dust, a deadlier fume:
The wireless crackles him, "Complete success";
"Next time," he smiles, "in half a minute less!"
To this the climbing brain has won at last—
A nation's life gone like a shrivelled scroll—
And thus To-Day outstrips the dotard Past!
I envy not that man his devil's soul.