Page:The Sad Years.djvu/111

AN OLD PROVERB (Continued) Where the red river ran, Hatred of man to man; Maddened they rush to kill, That but their single will; Strangle or bayonet him! Trample him life and limb Into the awful mire; Break him with knife or fire! So that we know he lie Dead to the smiling sky.

And in a thousand years It will be all the same. Which of us was to blame? What will it matter then? Over the sleeping men Grass will so softly grow No one would ever know Of the dark crimson stain, Of all the hate and pain That once had fearful birth In the black secret earth.

Ah! in a thousand years Time will forget our tears. [103]