“Would that I’d not drawn breath here!” some one said,

“To stalk upon this stage of evil deeds,

Where purposelessly month by month proceeds

A play so sorely shaped and blood-bespread.”

Yet had his spark not quickened, but lain dead

To the gross spectacles of this our day,

And never put on the proffered cloak of clay,

He had but known not things now manifested;

Life would have swirled the same.  Morns would have dawned

On the uprooting by the night-gun’s stroke

Of what the yester noonshine brought to flower;

Brown martial brows in dying throes have wanned

Despite his absence; hearts no fewer been broke

By Empery’s insatiate lust of power.

1915.