Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch-grass; Yet this will go onward the same Though Dynasties pass. III Yonder a maid and her wight Come whispering by: War’s annals will cloud into night Ere their story die. 1915. CRY OF THE HOMELESS AFTER THE PRUSSIAN INVASION OF BELGIUM “INSTIGATOR of the ruin— Whichsoever thou mayst be Of the masterful of Europe That contrived our misery— Hear the wormwood-worded greeting From each city, shore, and lea Of thy victims: “Conqueror, all hail to thee!” “Yea: ‘All hail!’ we grimly shout thee That wast author, fount, and head Of these wounds, whoever proven When our times are throughly read. ‘May thy loved be slighted, blighted, And forsaken,’ be it said By thy victims, ‘And thy children beg their bread!’ “Nay: a richer malediction!— Rather let this thing befall In time’s hurling and unfurling On the night when comes thy call; That compassion dew thy pillow And bedrench thy senses all For thy victims, Till death dark thee with his pall.” _August_ 1915. BEFORE MARCHING AND AFTER (_in Memoriam F. W. G._) ORION swung southward aslant Where the starved Egdon pine-trees had thinned, The Pleiads aloft seemed to pant With the heather that twitched in the wind; But he looked on indifferent to sights such as these, Unswayed by love, friendship, home joy or home sorrow, And wondered to what he would march on the morrow. The crazed household-clock with its whirr Rang midnight within as he stood, He heard the low sighing of her Who had striven from his birth for his good; But he still only asked the spring starlight, the breeze, What great thing or small thing his history would borrow From that Game with Death he would play on the morrow. When the heath wore the robe of late summer, And the fuchsia-bells, hot in the sun, Hung red by the door, a quick comer Brought tidings that marching was done For him who had joined in that game overseas Where Death stood to win, though his name was to borrow A brightness therefrom not to fade on the morrow. _September_ 1915. “OFTEN WHEN WARRING” OFTEN when warring for he wist not what, An enemy-soldier, passing by one weak, Has tendered water, wiped the burning cheek, And cooled the lips so black and clammed and hot; Then gone his way, and maybe quite forgot The deed of grace amid the roar and reek; Yet larger vision than loud arms bespeak He there has reached, although he has known it not.