- WAR
THESE, these are not the hours
For mention of sweet flowers,
Or for light whispers blown thro' brittle reeds.
The smoke of war's eclipse.
Rolls dark across love's lips,
Cypris is silent while Adonis bleeds.
So be it. It is so.
And yet while come and go
Sun, moon and stars, the old emotions waken
Which, while we breathe, we must
Feel thro' our human dust
Even tho' the pillars of the earth are shaken.
Oh hero hosts struck low,
That a new world may know,
Some rest from power, some escape from pride,
Faint over each dear head,
The shaméd gods must shed
Tears for the cruel pain in which you died.
Never quite as before,
Will spring come to our door —
A red stain lies upon love's tender star.
All born of human race,
Henceforth upon the place,
Where beats the heart must feel an aching scar.
