Florence Wilkinson Evans

LISTEN to me, ye creeping ants of men,

Because of human hearts I snatched and slew,

Because of blood poured out, because of blood,

I am drawn close to you.

Listen, across the quivering sea of roofs

Thousands of miles—that cry along the wires!

Aerial signals, soundless waves of air

Heavy with import, moan of steel-spun spires!

I brood above the costliness of the task

Through which these human creatures fall consumed.

Men, bow the head before the dizzying grave

Whose valour and toil to such a death are doomed.

This is the harvest you have sowed;

Your blood is mixed with mine, with mine;

And I, who break you on my fiery wheel,

Not Moloch am I, but divine, divine.

The pitiless Angel of the Mercenary?

Nay, for I too am great,

Lifting the vast hopes of the modern world

As on the knees of fate.

I am Winged Victory at the prow,

Oh ye who serve the God of force,

Pilgrims that ride the deep with me,

Ye, too, shall learn the love that is remorse.