While the
red-stained mouths

of machine guns ring

Across the infinite expanse of day;

While red or green,

before their posturing King,

The massed battalions break and melt away;

And while a monstrous frenzy runs a course

That makes of a thousand men a smoking pile

— Poor fools! — dead, in summer, in the grass,

On Nature’s breast, who meant these men to smile;

There is a God, who smiles upon us through

The gleam of gold, the incense-laden air,

Who drowses in a cloud of murmured prayer,

And only wakes when weeping mothers bow

Themselves in anguish, wrapped in old black shawls–

And their last small coin into his coffer falls.