Be slowly lifted up, thou
long black arm,
Great Gun towering towards
Heaven, about to
curse;
Sway steep against them, and for years rehearse
Huge
imprecations like a
blasting charm!
Reach at that
Arrogance which needs thy
harm,
And
beat it down before its
sins grow worse.
Spend our
resentment,
cannon, -- yea, disburse
Our gold in shapes of
flame, our breaths in
storm.
Yet, for men's sakes whom thy vast malison
Must wither innocent of enmity,
Be not withdrawn, dark arm, thy spoilure done,
Safe to the bosom of our prosperity.
But when thy spell be cast complete and whole,
May God curse thee, and cut thee from our soul!
- Wilfred Owen