Poetry Archives

My stretcher is one scarlet stain,
    And as I tries to scrape it clean,
I tell you wot—I’m sick with pain
    For all I’ve ‘eard, for all I’ve seen;
Around me is the ‘ellish night,
    And as the war’s red rim I trace,
I wonder if in ‘Eaven’s height,
    Our God don’t turn away ‘Is Face.

I don’t care ‘oose the Crime may be;
    I ‘olds no brief for kin or clan;
I ‘ymns no ‘ate: I only see
    As man destroys his brother man;
I waves no flag: I only know,
    As ‘ere beside the dead I wait,
A million ‘earts is weighed with woe,
    A million ‘omes is desolate.

In drippin’ darkness, far and near,
    All night I’ve sought them woeful ones.
Dawn shudders up and still I ‘ear
    The crimson chorus of the guns.
Look! like a ball of blood the sun
    ‘Angs o’er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . .
“Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!”
    O Prince of Peace! ‘ow long, ‘ow long?