Page:Poems of the Great War - Cunliffe.djvu/39

 Except that she will teach 11 im to her sons — A God quite scornful of the Slavic soul, And much concerned to keep Alsace-Lorraine. They should go godless, too — the poor, benumbed Crushed, anguished women, till their hearts can

hold A greater Comforter !

(Yet it is hard To make Him big enough ! For me, I like The English and the Germans and the French, The Russians, too ; and Servians, I should think, Might well be very interesting to God. But, do the best I may, my God is white, And hardly takes a nigger seriously This side of Africa. Not those, at least Who steal my wood, and of a summer night Keep me awake with shouting, where they sit With monkey-like fidelity and glee Grinding through their well-oiled sausage-mill — The dead machinery of the white man's church — Raw jiuigle-fervor, mixed with scraps sucked dry Of Israel's old sublimities : not those. And when they threaten us, the Higher Race, Think you, which side is God's? Oh, let us pray Lest blood yet spurt to wash that black skin white. As now it flows because a German hates A Cossack, and an Austrian a Serb !)

�� �