On Receiving the First News of the War

Snow is a strange white word; No ice or frost Has asked of bud or bird For Winter’s cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know; No man knows why.

In all men’s hearts it is: Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould.

Red fangs have torn His face, God’s blood is shed: He mourns from His lone place His children dead.

O ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume; Give back this universe Its pristine bloom.

Cape Town, 1914.