POET: But the dawn would not linger, nor the slow-advancing
day refuse to come ; The heartless larks saluted the morn, as if there had been
no murder. In the accusing light of the remorseless Sun It was not good to see the brown boys and girls lying
about the grass in reckless repose ; On their sides, as if overcome with weariness; On their backs, their arms thrown out carelessly. Or drawn over their eyes, as if to shut out the light. It was not good to see the fearful gate-way In the just-budding maiden bosom, Whence startled Life had leaped to search the void, And chubby babies, sleeping, with a blue bullet-hole In the innocent breast, the soft little belly. Mothers whose bosoms ran blood with the milk. They lay quiet, in great dignity ; Their eyes staring at us, indifferent ; almost contemptuous.
TRUTH: This was not the death ordered by the great Mother. Peaceful, beautiful, somnolent, serene ; This was the crystal vessel broken and the red wine spilled.
XXI. POET:
Hark!
TRUTH: The Devil, laughing.
POET:
Laughter from Hell.
It chuckles above the scream of shrapnel, the shrill of bullets, roar of shells, rattle of rifles, crackle of machine- guns and bellow of the great siege-cannon.
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