 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
9
To the dying Century, Farewell!
Born out of darkness, dying in the dark,
You with a hundred years upon your head,
Go take your youngest child who came with dread
And leaves us still in fearfulness: for, hark!
An hungred still, the hounds of battle bark.
Go from us, you have multiplied our dead;
Let others praise your wondrous forward tread—
Steam-plumed and glorious with the electric arc.
You with a hundred years upon your head,
Go take your youngest child who came with dread
And leaves us still in fearfulness: for, hark!
An hungred still, the hounds of battle bark.
Go from us, you have multiplied our dead;
Let others praise your wondrous forward tread—
Steam-plumed and glorious with the electric arc.
We praise you not; with all your knowledge and power—
Sea-lord—Earth-shaker, you have heaped the curse—
The lust of gold that breeds the lust of war;
A fairer century comes from Heaven—the nurse
Of nobler hope—lo! in her hand Love's dower
And on her head burns Brotherhood for a star.
Sea-lord—Earth-shaker, you have heaped the curse—
The lust of gold that breeds the lust of war;
A fairer century comes from Heaven—the nurse
Of nobler hope—lo! in her hand Love's dower
And on her head burns Brotherhood for a star.
| A Sonnet Chronicle | |