Anarchy
I saw a city filled with lust and shame, Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light; And sudden, in the midst of it, there came One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right. And speaking, fell before that brutish race Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear, While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer. ”Speak not of God! In centuries that word Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we.” And God stretched forth his finger as He heard And o’er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
John McCrae’s other poems:
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