New Poems

TO SHAKESPEARE IN 1916 With what white wrath must turn thy bones What stern amazement flame thy dust To feel so near this England's heart The outrage of the assassin's thrust! How must thou burn to have endured The acclaim of these whose fame unclean Reeks from the Lusitania's slain Stinks from the orgies of Malines! But surely too thou art consoled (Who knew'st thy stalwart breed so well) To see us rise from sloth and go Plain and unbragging through this hell. And surely too thou art assured. Hark how that grim and gathering beat Draws upwards from the ends of earth— The tramp tramp of thy kinsmen's feet.