codex002489-051r

Confessional.

Boston Journal.

War Poem. 1900.

Lord God whom we besought so late
Thou wouldst not suffer us forget-
Thy name, and our weak human state
Have patience Lord. a little yet.

Today, no pomp of empire fills
The wintry land -; amazed and awed
We watch thy slowly grinding Mills
Mete out to us, our just reward.

Today, by foemen sore beset
Dismayed, we draw our destined lot
We prayed to Thee "Lest we forget"
And even as we prayed, forgot.

With foolish, rash, vain glorious words
And sorry self-sufficiency
We boasted, girding on our swords
As those who laid their armor by.