Crowned on the twilight battlefield, there bends A crooked iron dwarf, and delves for gold, Chuckling: "One hundred thousand gatlings — sold!" And the moon rises, and a moaning rends The mangled living, and the dead distends, And a child cowers on the chartless wold, Where, searching in his safety vault of mold, The kobold kaiser cuts his dividends. We, who still wage his battles, are his thralls, And dying do him homage: yea, and give Daily our living souls to be enticed Into his power. So long as on war's walls We build engines of death that he may live, So long shall we serve Krupp instead of Christ. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE SOUTH ON ITS NEW SLAVERY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR BREAKFAST by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON IN HOSPITAL: 2. WAITING by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 27 by OMAR KHAYYAM FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN (BY ANDREA MANTEGNA) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE OLD VAGABOND by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER TO THOS. FLOYD by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE SECOND SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |