The fatal thrill of kingship over men.
What though the soul be from the body shrunk,
And we array the temple, but no god?
What though the cup of golden greed once drunk,
Our dust be laid in a dishonored sod,
While thy loud hosts proclaim the end of wars?
We read no sign. O, God, take down thy stars!
Breeding Machines
By Marion Craig Wentworth
(From “War Brides,” a drama of protest, popularized by the Russian actress, Nazimova.)