If God is thrilled by a battle cry,
If He can bless the moaning fight,
If when the trampling charge goes by
God himself is the leading knight;
If God laughs when the guns thunder,
If He yells when the bullet sings —
Then, bewildered, I but wonder
God of Love can love such things!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The white gulls wheeling over the plough,
The sun, the reddening trees —
We being enemies, I and thou,
There is no meaning in these.
There is no flight on the wings of Spring,
No scent in the summer rose,
The roundelays that the blackbirds sing —
There is no meaning in those!

If you must kill me — why the lark,
The hawthorn bud, and the corn?
Why do the stars bedew the dark?
Why is the blossom born?
If I must kill you — why the kiss
Which made you? There is no why!
If it be true we were born for this —
Merciless God, goodbye!
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