“Sheets of Scheduled Slaughter”

Thomas Hardy:

At the War Office, London

                          I
Last year I called this world of gaingivings
The darkest thinkable, and questioned sadly
If my own land could heave its pulse less gladly,
So charged it seemed with circumstance that brings
                    The tragedy of things

                        II
Yet at that censured time no heart was rent
Or feature blanched of parent, wife or daughter
By hourly posted sheets of scheduled slaughter;
Death waited Nature’s wont, Peace smiled unshent
                        From Ind to Occident.