SHELL-FIRE.

The Hun he taught us Gas and things —

But the high explosive shell

Was born of the Devil's mirth

And the reddest forge in Hell.

Now one hits the village church,

And the ancient, wavering wall

And the little pointed tower swing

And stagger and sway and fall.

Now one hits a red-slag roof,

And eighty feet on high

Towers a monstrous, salmon cloud

Against an azure sky.

Now one hits in a field of wheat,

Fresh planted, fair and green,

And a mighty, thundering crater bursts

Where abandoned plows careen.

Now one nears with spiral shriek

And strikes in the long white road,

And the Lord ha’ mercy on the Red Cross truck,

And its helpless, weary load.

Now one comes where you crouching wait

In the trench's far-flung line,

And you know there is never shelter against

The voice of that deadly whine.

Now one pierces the dugout's roof,

And when the foul smokes pass,

What once was there a dozen men

Is a crimson, clotted mass.

In the pale moonlight or the black of night —

When the sunset fires flare —

In the noontime's calm, without alarm,

The Great Arch Fiend is there,

With his frightful cry as he rushes nigh

On his errand of despair.