by WILLIAM WISTER HAINES
OUT of the night, that melancholy wailing
Carries no more to our instinctive fear
Its counterpoint of hope for human ailing.
Sirens no longer promise help is near.
Ambulance? Fire? Police? A grim collection
Of ills; yet, listening tense, we always knew
That mercy or assistance or protection
By man’s design to man’s misfortune flew.
Now as the blackout lowers and we grope
In woeful retrogression to the cave,
Our darkness must re-echo with a hope,
Which, all else lost, is still enough to save.
Sirens have told and yet shall tell of men
Speeding to help each other once again.