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Title: The Profiteers
Author: Edward Doyle [
More Titles by Doyle]
Now and in life--not Virgil--breaks a storm
Of Harpies, harsh to ear and foul to smell.
It sweeps War's lengthening coast, where each sea-swell
Is Humans, gasping. Hope drags each cold form
From hearth to hearth, to find no ember warm;
Then, their eyes glitter frost, who hear hope yell
As up she climbs the rocks and falls pell-mell
Back from small herbs, where monsters swoop and swarm.
Oh, could the bestial birds, in Virgil's verse,
See Hope's hands redden, as she rends her hair,
They would grow human--would not glut, but share;
Nor, then, shed human semblance for man's curse--
As ye do, who from want, hold warmth and fair,
And gorge your bulks to sleep, as want writhes worse!
[The end]
Edward Doyle's poem: Profiteers
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