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.
This poem is in the public domain.