The Harvest
Red reapers under these sad August skies,
Proud War—Lords, careless of ten thousand dead,
Who leave earth’s kindly crops unharvested
As you have left the kindness of the wise
For brutal menace and for clumsy lies,
The spawn of insolence by bragging fed,
With power and fraud in faith’s and honour’s stead,
Accounting these but good stupidities;
You reap a heavier harvest than you know.
Disnaturing a nation, you have thieved
Her name, her patient genius, while you thought
To fool the world and master it. You sought
Reality. It comes in hate and woe.
In the end you also shall not be deceived.
