From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 9, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.
No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in
And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down
Full on the bosom of the tortured town;
Till night falls, heavy as remembered sin
That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease,
And, hour on hour, the dry eyed Moon in spite
Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light
The torment of the uncomplaining trees.
Far off the Thunder bellows her despair
To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly
In vain. No help the heaped up clouds afford
But wearier weight of burdened, burning air,
What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky
Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword!
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