Dora Sigerson Shorter

“ To wake once more to killing, killing, killing.
Give me the hunter's hand, the patriot's fervour
To hold death naught, or for my land to serve her,
Slay and still slay, with heart that holds no sorrow
For these dead men and all their carnal horror.
Was I not one who loved my land for growing
Sweet, eager life, and pretty things all blowing?
How glad these hands to give their toil, how willing,
That now, O God ! grow strong in killing, killing. ”

“ Would pierce the gloom, and like a torch of flame
⁠Light up the bed where her three treasures lay.
Soft would she say, “See God's bright angel come
⁠To bless my babes and chase away the night”:
Then would she bend, all hungry in her love.
⁠To kiss each waking child with new delight. ”

“ No tender fledgling—ah! less easy spared,
⁠The mother fell to whet his cruel bill.
And I who passed and found the nest destroyed,
⁠And heard the hungry and affrighted cry
Of each poor babe, beneath Death's cunning blow,
⁠Who struck the whole because the one did die:
“Wherefore this strange destruction having made,
⁠This contradiction of all Nature's ways?” ”