It was not our hand or our fathers' hand,

Nor mortal malice and the hate of men,

That drew us to this far disastrous land

Where the old primal night comes on again.

Thy hand, O God of battles, and Thy voice

Drew friend and foe into one net of hell,

Wherefore Thine angels glory and rejoice,

Thine enemies shall perish. It is well.

We who had hoped in vain that for a season

We might hold back Thy darkness from mankind,

We who had trusted and obeyed our reason,

We now are helpless and amazed and blind.

Thou hast grudged the rich his little hours of pleasure,

The little things of life that he held dear,

The worker his fireside and evening leisure:

Thou hast Thy will. One doom has drawn us here.

Therefore from this unhallowed desolation,

Where these, the victims of Thy monstrous lust,

Half-buried in the mud of their damnation,

Crumble—how slowly!—into loathsome dust,

We curse Thee, God, nor shall our sons and daughters

Fall at Thy footstool as their fathers fell,

But, tired of tears and loyalties and slaughters,

Lie down in peace and laugh at heaven and hell.