The Spike or Victoria College Review 1941
A great river pours over the plain
And there is blood on its banks:
Green grass and crimson—
Muddy water and the bodies of men
Build new plains by the sea
For man to battle on.
But the Gods fight forever
And their blood is in the sunset,
With blue entrails twined around the sun
Tying it to the sky.
How sweet it is to kill!
To feel the blade quiver in the flesh—
And the moans of death,
They are like the wind in the plains,
Sweeping over the expanse of eternity.
"Kill" cries the wind as it stirs the snow:
Crimson snow with death in the wind—
Wind coming down out of the grim trees,
A discordant sigh, from the breast of time.