POET: The Devil is satirical. He amuses himself with field-hospitals Where the white-gowned surgeons, Red to the neck, like butchers.
Cut feverishly the flesh, which is cheaper than veal, Drinking brandy for strength to meet the truckloads of
bloody mutilations. Here is the Devil's toy-shop Where he whittles, for his amusement ; Cripples; monstrosities; misshapen deformities; toys for
his playthings ; Grotesques for his laughter. The grass and the leaves Shiver at the screams of torment ; But when the benevolent Night approaches, And the Moon rides upon the dusk, The Battle slumbers, snoring fitfully. The dying have time to die. Toward the grey dawn the long, dull moans grow
rhythmically weaker, as a lullaby which is ended.
TRUTH: But who shall hush the moans of the mothers who rock to and fro, crying, "Was it for this our travail?"
POET: Glow-worms sprinkle the land thickly like dull stars.
TRUTH: Candles lighted for the dead.
POET: Here are two, their hands almost touching. Their blood has run together in a little pool. It is of one redness. Slav and Saxon, it mingles beyond distinction.
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