“My sisters force their males From the doomed earth, from the doomed glee And hankering of hearts. Frail hands gleam up through the human quagmire, and lips of ash Seem to wail, as in sad faded paintings Far-sunken and strange. My sisters have their males Clean of the dust of old days That clings about those white hands And yearns in those voices sad: But these shall not see them, Or think of them in any days or years; They are my sisters’ lovers in other days and years.” ON RECEIVING THE FIRST NEWS OF THE WAR Snow is a strange white word; No ice or frost Has asked of bud or bird For Winter’s cost. Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know; No man knows why. In all men’s hearts it is: Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould. Red fangs have torn His face, God’s blood is shed: He mourns from His lone place His children dead. O ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume; Give back this universe Its pristine bloom. _Cape Town, 1914._ SPRING, 1916 Slow, rigid, is this masquerade That passes as through a difficult air: Heavily—heavily passes. What has she fed on? Who her table laid Through the three seasons? What forbidden fare Ruined her as a mortal lass is? I played with her two years ago, Who might be now her own sister in stone; So altered from her May mien, When round the pink a necklace of warm snow Laughed to her throat where my mouth’s touch had gone. How is this, ruined Queen? Who lured her vivid beauty so To be that strained chill thing that moves So ghastly midst her young brood Of pregnant shoots that she for men did grow? Where are the strong men who made these their loves? Spring! God pity your mood! THE TROOP SHIP Grotesque and queerly huddled Contortionists to twist The sleepy soul to a sleep, We lie all sorts of ways And cannot sleep. The wet wind is so cold, And the lurching men so careless, That, should you drop to a doze, Winds’ fumble or men’s feet Are on your face. MARCHING (AS SEEN FROM THE LEFT FILE).