Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/181

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AR laid bugle to his lips, blew one blast—and then

The seas answered him with ships, the earth with men.

Straight, Death caught his sickle up, called his reapers grim,

Famine with his empty cup came after him.

Down the stairs of Paradise hastened angels three,

Pity, and Self-Sacrifice, and Charity.

Where the curved, black sickles sweep, where pale Famine clings,

Where gaunt women watch and weep, come these of wings.