A. C. Stewart
My smoke-clouds shroud Dominions where my red rain
never fell: Far beyond the seven seas,
On the mountain and the plain, Hearts are shrunken to the lees, Souls are withered for the slain.
I am the Shell !
My dread reverberations echo over hill and dell, Where the grey-haired Mother sits, Fearful that the sock she knits Will never reach the boy whose face before her vision
flits.
And the widowed matron sews While her strained eye overflows, As the toddler by her chair Gazes "tranced at her despair,
Awed by the blighting tragedy of which he is the heir. Victory strikes no vibrant tone In her bosom reft and lone, Her heart rocked in an agony for him who was her own.
I am the Shell,
I owe it to the Diplomats to do my function well. They temporized and fell. But I I am the Shell ! Arbitrament s Finality the Power that can compel.
I am the Shell ! On human love, despair and grief I have no time to
dwell.
I am the Shell !
The resolute Destroyer of the woof and warp of Hell, The soulless Shell !
I am the Shell !
Not wholly nor forever the fierce instrument of Hell : Though I sweep in fearful guise,
Flaming Murder, Hate and Wrath. Grief relumes the darkened eyes. Life is vitalized by Death.
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