THE QUESTION
Give me the heavy sleep, the dreamless slumber
Nor shrouded grief nor sorrow will encumber.
Let me but sleep as he whose labour-hand
Hath tilled the sod and ploughed the pleasant land,
But, God ! to dream, to wake, and dream again,
Where screams red war in harvesting dead men.
Ah! dream of home, of love, of joy, all thrilling,
To wake once more to killing, killing, killing.
Give me the hunter's hand, the patriot's fervour
To hold death naught, or for my land to serve her,
Slay and still slay, with heart that holds no sorrow
For these dead men and all their carnal horror.
Was I not one who loved my land for growing
Sweet, eager life, and pretty things all blowing?
How glad these hands to give their toil, how willing,
That now, O God ! grow strong in killing, killing.
I never see a young face grey in dying
But from my blade I hear a woman crying:
“Spare, spare my child!” or screams my bullet, saying,
“Stay, stay thy flight! My father thou art slaying.”
All summer through I heard from each pale sleeper,
“Thou shalt not kill.” “Am I my brother's keeper?”
I fain replied. And now comes dread December,
With “Peace on Earth.” O God! dare I remember?
“To men goodwill.” Am I Thy laws fulfilling
Who run red-handed—killing, killing, killing?