Verse > Anthologies > Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. > The Book of New York Verse
Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed.  The Book of New York Verse.  1917.
The Angel of the Cornice
By Florence Wilkinson Evans
LISTEN to me, ye creeping ants of men,
Because of human hearts I snatched and slew,
Because of blood poured out, because of blood,
I am drawn close to you.
Listen, across the quivering sea of roofs        5
Thousands of miles—that cry along the wires!
Aerial signals, soundless waves of air
Heavy with import, moan of steel-spun spires!
I brood above the costliness of the task
Through which these human creatures fall consumed.        10
Men, bow the head before the dizzying grave
Whose valour and toil to such a death are doomed.
This is the harvest you have sowed;
Your blood is mixed with mine, with mine;
And I, who break you on my fiery wheel,        15
Not Moloch am I, but divine, divine.
The pitiless Angel of the Mercenary?
Nay, for I too am great,
Lifting the vast hopes of the modern world
As on the knees of fate.        20
I am Winged Victory at the prow,
Oh ye who serve the God of force,
Pilgrims that ride the deep with me,
Ye, too, shall learn the love that is remorse.

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