Classic Poem

(“Owvrière sans yeux.”)

Toiler sans eyes, dull-brained Penelope,
 Cradler of chaos, powerless to create,
War, whom the clash of iron fires to glee,
 The furious blast of clarions makes elate,—
Quaffer of blood, foul hag that to thy feast
 Lur'st men and madden'st them with vile delight,—
Cloud, swollen with thunder North, South, West and East,
 Fulfilled with rage darker than darkest night,—
Vast Madness, that for swords keen lightnings wieldest,
 What is thy use, dire birth of hellish race,
If, while thou ruinest sin, crime thou upbuildest,
 Setting the monster i' the beast's pride of place;
  If with thine awful darkness thou dost smother
  One Emperor, but to yield earth thence another?