Arthur St. John Adcock: Все стихи поэта

Lord of this blood-drenched battle plain,

Lord of the foe our hands have slain

Glory to Thee amidst the dead,

That Thou hast still Thy people led,

And shattered thus, O Lord benign,

This people that was also Thine!

Lord of our high, triumphant state,

Break Thou my heart, dear Lord, lest I should die:

The world's gross business has so husked and grown

Round it and stricken it with death that I—

Once tounched by sorrows other lives have known—

I cannot even feel the griefs that are my own.

Thus living but as Thy dumb creatures do,

Careless, estranged from tears and inward smart,

This stark indifference, subtly creeping through