The Coming of War

Strong from the hills it comes, and flowing
rivers;
Swift from the waters of the rising seas;
Swift on the chilling heart that waits and quivers
With a terror of hideousies.
Behind grey mist it comes, and creeping cloud
That licks the fading earth with foetid breath.
From plains it comes, and silent lakes – a shroud
That holds unloosed the damned brigades of
death.
It sweeps and passes. Everything is dead-
Broken with foulness-ravished as it bled!
A blow, a weeping! Then a silence lies.
Faint bells low-tinkling from the bloody sod
Rise from the depths of heart, and touch the skies,
And murmur at the very stairs of God.