Item 01: Henry Weston Pryce diary, May 1916-ca. 1918 - Page 125
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Transcription
[Page 125
?Sept. 29th
Speak, blind Cannon!
With red, flaming lips.
Speak all your scorn!
The light of eve or morn
Knows not the kindness of the dark that hides
These tortured fields of France.
The Earth is rotting
And the Heavens streams are numb dead.
The Heavens weepFor all who sleep
And not for those here asleep
But for the luckless living in the road trenchLet the red flame dance
Bid thy Flame Wantons dance
And shout thy songs the louder
When red the night flares shine!
We are thy feast blind Cannon!
Our bursting crumbling bones thy powder
Our dropping pleasing willing blood thy wine!
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