Waiting.

Silence and snow; and all the world seems dead, The great guns wait the sudden word of doom When ruins garden breaks in awful red Profusion of its hate-engrafted bloom. Blow, wind of Spring, the shattering uiet rend, That we ma! hear the thunders of the "nd# $ur ner%es are strained b! waiting, not b! fear. These lines we held with ragged hosts and few &n the red winter of that trial !ear When war and all its murder-shames were new, 'are we fall now when, girt b! force and flame, We face the last great task in (reedoms name) Blow, wind of Spring# We face the final test. The desperate foeman here shall knock in %ain. We stand full-armed to meet his last and best, Till truth is %ictor and till wrong is slain. Blow, wind of Spring, blow warm on land and sea, Blow on the flaming pipes of %ictor!#
*eorge Street. +.S.W. The Bulletin, ,- (ebruar! ,.,/.