J. PETERSON
Private, Seaforth Highlanders
Peace
"THERE is no peace, no peace," the big guns shout
To drown the little voice that ev'ry hour,
Persistent as the muezzin from his tower,
Proclaims that all is well.—Yet who shall doubt
The deep-sea thunder in dim moonlit caves,
The green hills singing to the morning sun,
The wild flowers flaunting till the day is done,
Or plaintive sea-gull cries o'er twilit waves?—
"No peace," they growl! The little voice pleads on:
A lark high singing o'er the barrage blast,
A moonbeam on the lake's dark bosom cast,
A whisper from a thousand mouths anon,
"Lo! beauty, beauty may not, cannot cease,
And beauty's thrice-starred crown is peace, is peace."
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