The Horses
"Thus far 80,000 horses have been shipped from the United States to the European
AT was our share in the sinning,
That we must share the doom?
Sweet was our life's
In the spicy meadow-bloom,
With children's hands to pet
And kindly tones to call.
To-day the red spurs fret
Against the bayonet wall.
What had we done, our masters,
That you sold us into hell?
Our terrors and
Have filled your pockets well.
You feast on our starvation;
Your laughter is our groan.
Have horses then no nation,
No country of their own?
What are we, we your horses,
So loyal where we serve,
Fashioned of noble
All sensitive with nerve?
Torn, agonized, we
On the blood-bemired sod;
And still the shiploads follow.
Have horses then no God?
Katharine Lee Bates
Other author posts
The End Of May
HE fragrant air is full of down, Of floating, fleecy From some forgotten fairy Where all the folk wear wings
Graves At Christiania
WE bore them their own wild And ash-boughs jeweled red, There where they sleep together, Greatest of Norway's dead
Jerusalem
AT last, at last the Falls back before the Cross Great spirits, With longing and with loss,
When Lincoln Died
A five-year old in a Cape Cod village, twenty miles from the rail, Falmouth, Falmouth, loveliest Falmouth, Wearing her silvery, pearl-embroidered ocean mist for a veil;