Evil

While the red-stained mouths of machine guns ring Across the infinite expanse of day; While red or green, before their posturing King, The massed battalions break and melt away; And while a monstrous frenzy runs a course That makes of a thousand men a smoking pile- Poor fools! - dead, in summer, in the grass, On Nature's breast, who meant these men to smile; There is a God, who smiles upon us through The gleam of gold, the incense-laden air, Who drowses in a cloud of murmured prayer, And only wakes when weeping mothers bow Themselves in anguish, wrapped in old black shawls- And their last small coin into his coffer falls.