THE GRIP OF THE DEAD HAND
SEE them arching grimly as you feel
Those fingers long and slim and cold and real
That grip the world about with hoops of steel!
War's mortgage on the nations, and its toll
Of boldly gallant lives that must enroll,—
A deathly gripping thing upon the soul.
Religious dogma, still a burning hoop:
Hersey falcons downward fiercely swoop
on every chick that chirps beyond the coop.
A durance deadlier that rubs the raw
And stifles Justice in the courts of
law, Is hoary Precedent with ape-like jaw.
And Vice incarnate keeps his luring den,
Draining the tainted blood of erring men,—
A smiling Vampire baffling sword and pen.
The little finger is a lighter load:
"Tis etiquette and fashion's changing code,—
A ribboned whip,-sometimes a pricking goad.
O Grip of the Dead Hand! In your palm lie
Strong sons of men, aflame to reach the sky
On Wings of Life, unclipped before they fly.
NEVER AGAIN
October, 1914
NEVER again shall the Sword swift steel
Redden the soil of the world!
Never again shall the Dreadnought's keel
Trouble the waves foam-hurled!
For down in the deep of the hearts of men
And up on the spirit's height,
The dense, dark clouds are lifting agen
And there is light!
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