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 The Wine Press

(English poet, born 1880)

A Murdered man, ten miles away, Will hardly shake your peace, Like one red stain upon your hand; And a tortured child in a distant land Will never check one smile to-day, Or bid one fiddle cease.

The News

It comes along a little wire, Sunk in a deep sea; It thins in the clubs to a little smoke Between one joke and another joke, For a city in flames is less than the fire That comforts you and me.

The Diplomats

Each was honest after his way, Lukewarm in faith, and old; And blood, to them, was only a word, And the point of a phrase their only sword, And the cost of war, they reckoned it In little disks of gold.

They were cleanly groomed. They were not to be bought. And their cigars were good. But they had pulled so many strings