Poem of the Day: the Big Guns

Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm,
Great gun towering towards Heave, about to curse;
Sway steep against them, and for years rehearse
Huge imprecations like a blasting charm!
Reach at that Arrogance which needs they harm,
And beat it down before its sins grow worse;
Spend our resentment, cannon,--yea, disburse
Our gold in shapes of flames, our breath in storm.

Yet, for men's sake 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Be not withdrawn, dark arm, thy spoilure done, 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!

—Wilfrid Owen, “A Sonnet: On Seeing a Piece of Our Artillery Brought Into Action,” in The Collected Poems of Wilfrid Owen (New Directions, 1963), p. 85.