By George Sterling

Because of the decisions of a few,—
Because in half a score of haughty minds
The night lay black and terrible, thy winds,
O Europe! are a stench on heaven's blue.
Thy scars abide, and here is nothing new:
Still from the throne goes forth the dark that blinds,
And still the satiated morning finds
The unending thunder from the bloody dew.

Shall night be lord forever, and not light?
Look forth, tormented nations!
Let your eyes
Behold this horror that the few have done!
Then turn, strike hands, and in your burning might
Inpel the fog of murder from the skies,
And sow the hearts of Europe with the sun!

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