Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Wakened GodMargaret Widdemer
T
There were gold chains about his hands.
He said: “And who shall reap my lands
And bear the tithes to Death for me?
They wearied of my steel despair,
The flames from out my burning hair:
Is there an ending of such things?”
Was any changeless law I gave
Changed by my sons intent to save,
By puny pitying hands of men?
The swarming, hungering overflow
Of crowded millions, doomed to go,
They must destroy who chained you there.
They stint a million bodies’ breath,
And sell the women, shamed, to death,
And send the men brief length of days.
And kill the souls you gave to peace….
You were more merciful than these,
Old master of my cruelty.
Take back thy scourge of ministry,
Rise from thy silence suddenly,
Lest these still take Death’s toll to him!”
His mercies thundered down the world,
And lashing battle-lines uncurled
And scourged the crouching lands again.