[written in response to the suicide of Friedrich Krupp, 22 Nov 1902;
published by the Los Angeles Times 24 Nov 1902]


Dead! and the belching thunder
    Of the guns on sea and shore,
Though they rive the world asunder,
    Can break on his ears no more.

Forth from his hands he sent them,
    Wherever men met as foes;
And, wherever strong hands unbent them,
    The cry of the wounded rose.

The groans of the maimed and dying,
    The moans of the ebbing heart,
On the fields of the dead, low lying,
    Were praise of his master art.

Wherever the ocean's billows
    The ships of the fleet have sped,
Deep over the coral pillows,
    Where the wild seas keep their dead;

Wherever, in rush or rally,
    Man clashed in the strife with man,
In Paadeberg's war-strewn valley,
    Or of the red heights of Sedan,

Death and blood and disaster
    Spoke his great name in dread;
And now, in his shroud, the master
    That fashioned the guns lies dead.