Page:The Sad Years.djvu/33



IVE me the heavy sleep, the dreamless slumber Nor shrouded grief nor sorrow will encumber. Let me but sleep as he whose labour-hand Hath tilled the sod and ploughed the pleasant land, But, God ! to dream, to wake, and dream again, Where screams red war in harvesting dead men. Ah! dream of home, of love, of joy, all thrilling, To wake once more to killing, killing, killing.

Give me the hunter's hand, the patriot's fervour To hold death naught, or for my land to serve her, Slay and still slay, with heart that holds no sorrow For these dead men and all their carnal horror. Was I not one who loved my land for growing Sweet, eager life, and pretty things all blowing? How glad these hands to give their toil, how willing, That now, O God ! grow strong in killing, killing.

I never see a young face grey in dying But from my blade I hear a woman crying: [25]