 | Poems of the war |  |
160
[Blood, blood! The lines of every printed sheet]
Blood, blood! The lines of every printed sheetThrough their dark arteries reek with running gore;
At hearth, at board, before the household door,
'T is the sole subject with which neighbors meet.
Girls at the feast, and children in the street,
Prattle of horrors; flash their little store
Of simple jests against the cannon's roar,
As if mere slaughter kept existence sweet.
O, heaven, I quail at the familiar way
This fool, the world, disports his jingling cap;
Murdering or dying with one grin agap!
161
Smiling at victory, scowling at mishap,
With gory Death companioned and at play.
| Poems of the war | |