The worker his fireside and evening leisure:
Thou hast Thy will. One doom has drawn us here.
Therefore from this unhallowed desolation,
Where these, the victims of Thy monstrous lust,
Half-buried in the mud of their damnation,
Crumble—how slowly!—into loathsome dust,
We curse Thee, God, nor shall our sons and daughters
Fall at Thy footstool as their fathers fell,
But, tired of tears and loyalties and slaughters,
Lie down in peace and laugh at heaven and hell.