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Poem by Stephen Phillips
There is a hush before the thunder-jar, When white the steeples against purple stand: There is a hush when night with star on star Goes ashen on the summer like a brand. Now a more awful pause appals the soul, When concentrating armies crouch to spring; Stillness more fraught than any thunder-roll, Dawn European with a redder wing. The Teuton host no conscience onward drives; Sullen they come; to slaughter shepherded; Timed for the shambles with unwilling lives, With doubt each soldier is already dead. The massed battalions as a myth shall reel; Vainly they fight, if first they cannot feel.
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