Poems (Tree)/Now is the Evening Dipped Knee-Deep in Blood

by Iris Tree

SMOKE

NOW is the evening dipped knee-deep in bloodAnd the dun hills stand fearful in their places.Cunning in sin, we shuffle down the streetsWith burdens of vainglory on our backs,Spinning with spider-hands the miser's webOr sitting placid, gay and fat with ease.But out beyond, the armies of the worldMarch doomwards to the rhythm of the drumUnder the thirsting sun. Death holds his state:

His skeleton hands are filled with scarlet spoil:He stands on flaming ramparts, waving highThe ensign of decay. All his bones are dressedWith livid roses; all his pillars blackAre girt in ashen poppies, and on dustHe raises up his awful golden throne.

Oh! your fierce shrieks have fainted on deaf ears;Your tears have flowed on feet of carven stone;Your blood is spilt for the boiling-pot of GodWhere good and evil mix; and all your rageIs but a thin smoke wafted in His face.

1914