The death of the pale-sodden hay
'Neath the feet of the kine
Is to man for a sign;
At the striking of ten he was grey,
And they carried him out
Stiff-strangled with gout.
(Man, it is said, is as hay.)
_THE PATER OF THE CANNON_
Father of the thunder,
Flinger of the flame,
Searing stars asunder,
_Hallowed be Thy Name_!
By the sweet-sung quiring
Sister bullets hum,
By our fiercest firing,
_May Thy Kingdom come_!
By Thy strong apostle
Of the Maxim gun,
By his pentecostal
Flame, _Thy Will be done_!
Give us, Lord, good feeding
To Thy battles sped--Flesh,
white grained and bleeding,
_Give for daily bread_!
_FLEET STREET_
I never see the newsboys run
Amid the whirling street,
With swift untiring feet,
To cry the latest venture done,
But I expect one day to hear
Them cry the crack of doom
And risings from the tomb,
With great Archangel Michael near;
And see them running from the Fleet
As messengers of God,
With Heaven's tidings shod
About their brave unwearied feet.
_NIGHTMARE_
I dreamt that the heavens were beggared
And angels went chanting for bread,
And the cherubs were sewed up in sackcloth,
And Satan anointed his head.
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