Classic Poem

Outside the wind sobs in the old spruce.
One dead branch taps my window pane.
Drips the slow rain
And grieves,
Lamenting Earth's misuse—

Lamenting the blood-lust of bestial men
Who spew their hate over the raped lands
Where children stretch to heaven red, maimed hands,
And shriek to be avenged.
Slow drips the rain. But oh, more slow, alas—
What if too late?—comes the Avenging Thrust!
—Profitable is neutrality! Let the sword rust!
The storm—and shame—may pass!