In a man's rough throat
As he turns at an entering tread--
Satyrs! see!
"My woman--she
Was brought last night to bed!"

A cry of "Halt!"--
"Ach! ich bin kalt!"
"A spy!"--"No."--"That is clear!
There's a good shake-down
I' the jail in town--
For her!"--And then, "My orders here."

A shot, sharp-rolled
As the clouds unfold:
A scream; and a cry forlorn....
Clothed red with fire,
Like the Heart's Desire,
Look down the Christmas Morn.

The babe with light
Is haloed bright,
And it is Christmas Day:
A cry of woe;
Then footsteps slow,
And the wild guns, far away.

_THE FESTIVAL OF THE AISNE_

Imperial Madness, will of hand,
Builds vast an altar here, and rears
Before the world, on godly land,
A Moloch form of blood and tears.

And far as eye can see, behold,
Priests plunge into its brazen arms
Men, that its iron maw of mold
Mangles, returning horrible forms.

Its Priests are armies, moving slow,
And crowned like kings, in human-guise:
And theirs it is to make it flow--
The crimson stream of sacrifice.

_THE CRY OF EARTH_

The Season speaks this year of life
Confusing words of strife,
Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowers
In all Earth's bowers.

With heart of Jael, face of Ruth,
She goes her way uncouth
Through hills and fields, where fog and sunset seem
Wild smoke and steam.

Around her, spotted as a leopard skin,
She draws her cloak of whin,
And through the dark hills sweeps dusk's last red glare
Wild on her hair.

Her hands drip leaves, like blood, and burn
With frost; her moony urn
She lifts, where Death, 'mid driving stress and storm,
Rears his gaunt form.

And all night long she seems to say
"Come forth, my Winds, and slay!--"
And everywhere is heard the wailing cry
Of dreams that die.

_CHILD AND FATHER_

A little child, one night, awoke and cried,
"Oh, help me, father! there is something wild
Before me! help me!" Hurrying to his side
I answered, "I am here. You dreamed, my child."

"A dream?--" he questioned. "Oh, I could not see!
It was so dark!--Take me into your bed!"--
And I, who love