by Arthur Stringer
He sat behind his roses and did wake
With wanton hands those passions grim
That naught but bitter tears and blood can slake,
And naught but years can dim.
So o'er their wine did Great Ones sit and nod,
Ordaining War . . . . . as it befell:
Men drunk with drum and trumpet mouthed of God
And reeled down blood-washed roads to Hell!
Last updated January 14, 2019