SMOKE

Now is the evening dipped knee-deep in blood

And the dun hills stand fearful in their places.

Cunning in sin, we shuffle down the streets

With burdens of vainglory on our backs,

Spinning with spider-hands the miser's web

Or sitting placid, gay and fat with ease.

But out beyond, the armies of the world

March doomwards to the rhythm of the drum

Under the thirsting sun. Death holds his state:

His skeleton hands are filled with scarlet spoil:

He stands on flaming ramparts, waving high

The ensign of decay. All his bones are dressed

With livid roses; all his pillars black

Are girt in ashen poppies, and on dust

He raises up his awful golden throne.

Oh! your fierce shrieks have fainted on deaf ears;

Your tears have flowed on feet of carven stone;

Your blood is spilt for the boiling-pot of God

Where good and evil mix; and all your rage

Is but a thin smoke wafted in His face.