Classic Poem

Wake, God, and arm — this is no time for sleep;
Now that red Madness wakes ten million men,
And Murder laughs and stabs and laughs again,
And Lust runs rough-shod where it feared to creep.
Brushing Thy hand the great-winged navies sweep;
Each night sends down a hideous surprise.
Even the stars drip war ... and swarms of flies
Blot farms and cities in one festering heap.

Where art Thou, God, these torn and shattering days?
Where is Thine ancient wrath, Thy militant word? ...
Still Thou are still — impotent and absurd —
A cautious god, feeble with too much praise.
Thou too, arise and arm! Why shouldst Thou be
Keeping, with Death, this black neutrality.