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The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy
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Baring gaunt teeth at every peaceful nook,
And shaking torrent hair
At every little brook.
Cancers of ulcerous flame his eyes, and – hark!
There in the dark
The ponderous stir of metal, iron feet;
And with it, heard around the world, the beat
Of Battle; sounds that mark
His heart's advance, retreat.
With shrapnel pipes he goes his monstrous ways;
And, screeching, plays
The hell-born music Havoc dances to;
And, following with his skeleton-headed crew
Of ravening Nights and Days,
Horror invades the blue.
Against the Heaven he lifts a mailed fist
And writes a list
Of beautiful cities on the ghastly sky:
And underneath them, with no reason why,
In blood and tears and mist,
The postscript, "These must die!"
Change is the portion and chief heritage
Of every Age.
The spirit of God still waits its time. – And War
May blur His message for a while, and mar
The writing on His page,
To this our sorrowful star.
But there above the conflict, orbed in rays,
Is drawn the face
Of Peace; at last who comes into her own;
Peace, from whose tomb the world shall roll the stone,
And give her highest place
In the human heart alone.
A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS
The "happy year" of 1914
An hour from dawn:
The snow sweeps on
As it swept with sleet last night:
The Earth around
Breathes never a sound,
Wrapped in its shroud of white.
A waked cock crows
Under the snows;
Then silence. – After while
The sky grows blue,
And a star looks through
With a kind o' bitter smile.
A whining dog;
An axe on a log,
And a muffled voice that calls:
A cow's long low;
Then footsteps slow
Stamping into the stalls.
A bed of straw
Where the wind blows raw
Through cracks of the stable door:
A child's small cry,
A voice nearby,
That says, "One mouth the more."
A different note
In a man's rough throat
As he turns at an entering tread —
Satyrs! see!
"My woman – she
Was brought last night to bed!"
A cry of "Halt!" —
"Ach! ich bin kalt!"
"A spy!" – "No." – "That is clear!
There's a good shake-down
I' the jail in town —
For her!" – And then, "My orders here."
A shot, sharp-rolled
As the clouds unfold:
A scream; and a cry forlorn…
Clothed red with fire,
Like the Heart's Desire,
Look down the Christmas Morn.
The babe with light
Is haloed bright,
And it is Christmas Day:
A cry of woe;
Then footsteps slow,
And the wild guns, far away.
THE FESTIVAL OF THE AISNE
And shaking torrent hair
At every little brook.
Cancers of ulcerous flame his eyes, and – hark!
There in the dark
The ponderous stir of metal, iron feet;
And with it, heard around the world, the beat
Of Battle; sounds that mark
His heart's advance, retreat.
With shrapnel pipes he goes his monstrous ways;
And, screeching, plays
The hell-born music Havoc dances to;
And, following with his skeleton-headed crew
Of ravening Nights and Days,
Horror invades the blue.
Against the Heaven he lifts a mailed fist
And writes a list
Of beautiful cities on the ghastly sky:
And underneath them, with no reason why,
In blood and tears and mist,
The postscript, "These must die!"
Change is the portion and chief heritage
Of every Age.
The spirit of God still waits its time. – And War
May blur His message for a while, and mar
The writing on His page,
To this our sorrowful star.
But there above the conflict, orbed in rays,
Is drawn the face
Of Peace; at last who comes into her own;
Peace, from whose tomb the world shall roll the stone,
And give her highest place
In the human heart alone.
A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS
The "happy year" of 1914
An hour from dawn:
The snow sweeps on
As it swept with sleet last night:
The Earth around
Breathes never a sound,
Wrapped in its shroud of white.
A waked cock crows
Under the snows;
Then silence. – After while
The sky grows blue,
And a star looks through
With a kind o' bitter smile.
A whining dog;
An axe on a log,
And a muffled voice that calls:
A cow's long low;
Then footsteps slow
Stamping into the stalls.
A bed of straw
Where the wind blows raw
Through cracks of the stable door:
A child's small cry,
A voice nearby,
That says, "One mouth the more."
A different note
In a man's rough throat
As he turns at an entering tread —
Satyrs! see!
"My woman – she
Was brought last night to bed!"
A cry of "Halt!" —
"Ach! ich bin kalt!"
"A spy!" – "No." – "That is clear!
There's a good shake-down
I' the jail in town —
For her!" – And then, "My orders here."
A shot, sharp-rolled
As the clouds unfold:
A scream; and a cry forlorn…
Clothed red with fire,
Like the Heart's Desire,
Look down the Christmas Morn.
The babe with light
Is haloed bright,
And it is Christmas Day:
A cry of woe;
Then footsteps slow,
And the wild guns, far away.
THE FESTIVAL OF THE AISNE
Другие электронные книги автора Madison Cawein
Последний отзыв
Книгу прочитать не могу, везде ЛитРес свой нос сунул, как и где скачать полную версию бесплатно!?!?