The Middle Miles And Other Poems

lts Ponderous, and I turn away . . . God, how the ghost in man revolts Against the day! WASTE (To F. P. A.?September 1914) Men of practised hand, Men of subtle wit, Men of curious skill, Side by side they stand (O the waste of it!) At the War Lord's will; Side by side they lie Under a calm sky? Waiting a command: WASTE Ah.' it comes at last . . . Kill- Forget the past? Kill! It is not yours to weave, Or bake, or brew; I order you to cleave And burn and hew! Forward, 'tis yours to fell Or, fighting, fall; To question is not well? Obey my call! Ypu, with the student's face, The thoughtful brow, It is not yours to trace The annals of the race, Or ponder now Man's lineage from the brute? 'Tis yours to shoot! You, there, in shadow! Joy-maker? Put by Your happy dreams! Singer, what need have I For aught save the harsh cry Of hate? And you, loved poet, you it seems Must stop one bullet to fulfil my schemes? 'Tis yours to die. You, man of science, haste! It matters not That you have left behind No fellow master of your patient thought, No equal power of mind. Have you not heard My word? Then heed My need! For I am pledged to feed With blood yon cannon's shot . . . Forward! Can you not bleed? Ye, taught to build, tear down! Ye, taught to plant, uproot! Genius or gibbering clown, I care not?so ye shoot Straight, and press on! 'Tis mine To give the sign. Chance atoms in my hand,...