Not all the stream of blood outpoured
Can Peace—the Long-desired—afford;
Not tears of Mother, Maid or Wife . . .
Make this thing plain!
We must root out our sins ignored,
By whatsoever name adored;
Our secret sins, that, ever rife,
Shrink from the operating knife;
Then shall we rise, renewed, restored . . .
Make this thing plain!
PEACE
(November 11, 1918)
PEACE, battle-worn and starved, and gaunt and pale,
Rises like mist upon a storm-swept shore,
Rises from out the bloodstained fields and bows her head,
Blessing the passionate dead
Who gladly died that she might live for evermore.
Unheeding generations come and go,
And careless men and women will forget,
Caught in the whirling loom whose tapestried To-day
Flings Yesterday away,
And covers up the crimsoned West whose sun has set.
But faithful ghosts, like shepherds, will return
To call the flocking shades and break with them
Love-bread, and Peace will strain them to her breast, and weep,
And deathless vigil keep.
Yea, Peace, while worlds endure, will sing their requiem.
