How hard it is to think upon this shoal
Of Inanition that the world’s ablaze.
How hard to link these lazy summer days
With ends and issues that will not unroll
Their lengths in aeons—mankind’s furthest goal,
Perpending in the thick and murderous haze
Of yonder battle-hurricane that lays
Legions to rest till the last tattoo roll.
On sun-beat sand the busy ants deploy;
Industrious spiders ply their little looms;
With brush and pencil or with book we toy.
The quiet evening nears; the beetle booms.
God blazes at the world. Hell gapes for joy.
And Europe whitens with those nameless tombs.
Hesepe, 30th May