Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/War

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For works with similar titles, see War.


THE serpent-horror writhing in her hair,
And crowning cruel brows bent o'er the ground
That she would crimson now from many a wound,
Medusa-like, I seem to see her there—
War! with her petrifying eyes astare—
And can no longer listen to the sound
Of song-birds in the harvest fields around;
Such prophecies do her mute lips declare.

Evils? Can any greater be than they
That troop licentious in her brutal train?
Unvindicated honour? She brings shame—
Shame more appalling than men dare to name,
Betraying them that die and them that slay,
And making of this earth a hell of pain!