For hand and heart and living steel, one pulse of
hate they feel.
Is your clan afraid of the naked blade? Does it
flinch from the bitter steel?
Perish your dreams of conquest then, your swollen
hopes and bold,
For empire dwells with the stabbing blade, as it
did in the days of old!


THE BUTCHERS AT PRAYER

(1914)

EACH nation as it draws the sword
And flings its standard to the air
Petitions piously the Lord--
Vexing the void abyss with prayer.

O irony too deep for mirth!
O posturing apes that rant, and dare
This antic attitude! O Earth,
With your wild jest of wicked prayer!

I dare not laugh . . . a rising swell
Of laughter breaks in shrieks somewhere--
No doubt they relish it in Hell,
This cosmic jest of Earth at prayer!