Burning of canvas and smashing of wood above—
Havoc of Mercy’s toil—shall He forget
Us that have fallen, Who numbers in gracious love
Each tiny creature whose life is man’s debt?
Will He not hear us, though speech is now failing us—
Voices too feeble to utter a cry?
Shall they not answer, the foemen assailing us,
Women who suffer and women who die?
Who shall avenge us for anguish unnamable,
Rivers of scarlet and crosses of grey,
Terror of night-time and blood-lust untamable,
Hate without pity where broken we lay?
WAR
(The Great German Offensive, March—May 1918)
A night of storm and thunder crashing by,
A bitter night of tempest and of rain—
Then calm at dawn beneath a wind-swept sky,
And broken flowers that will not bloom again.
An age of Death and Agony and Tears,
A cruel age of woe unguessed before—
Then peace to close the weary storm-wrecked years,
And broken hearts that bleed for evermore.
THE LAST POST
The stars are shining bright above the camps,
The bugle calls float skyward, faintly clear;
Over the hill the mist-veiled motor lamps
Dwindle and disappear.