I

Last year I called this world of gain-givings

The darkest thinkable, and questioned sadly

If my own land could heave its pulse less gladly,

So charged it seemed with circumstance whence springs

   The tragedy of things.

II

Yet at that censured time no heart was rent

Or feature blanched of parent, wife, or daughter

By hourly blazoned sheets of listed slaughter;

Death waited Nature’s wont; Peace smiled unshent

   From Ind to Occident.