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Madison Julius Cawein (Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн) The Festival of the Aisne Imperial Madness, will of hand, Builds vast an altar here, and rears Before the world, on godly land, A Moloch form of blood and tears. And far as eye can see, behold, Priests plunge into its brazen arms Men, that its iron maw of mold Mangles, returning horrible forms. Its Priests are armies, moving slow, And crowned like kings, in human-guise: And theirs it is to make it flow The crimson stream of sacrifice. Madison Julius Cawein's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1206 |
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