At the War Office, London
Last year I called this world of gain-givingsThe darkest thinkable, and questioned sadlyIf my own land could heave its pulse less gladly,So charged it seemed with circumstance whence springsThe tragedy of things.
Yet at that censured time no heart was rentOr feature blanched of parent, wife, or daughterBy hourly blazoned sheets of listed slaughter;Death waited Nature’s wont; Peace smiled unshentFrom Ind to Occident.
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