Classic Poem

Peace

Flow, flag, in the soft wind; blow, bugle, blow;
The day we dreamed of through the years is here.
Lowered is Mars' red spear;
And the shot-peopled air,
Tired of the wild trumpet's blare,
Tired of the upturned, glassy eyes of men,
Is quiet again.
Discord has fled with her gigantic peals,
And, at her heels,
Walks the old silence of the long ago.
Flow, flag, in the soft wind; blow, bugles, blow.

The upturned faces of the world to-day
Are like the laughing waves of a sea in May.
Tears are a lost art of a hateful dream;
Laughter is King, is King.
Blow, bugles, blow; let the wild sirens scream,
Let the mad music ring,
Until the very flowers shall nod and sing.
I hear the lusty cheers of youth whose years
Were blown to the crag's black edge;
I see the Hours quaff up a mother's tears
As the sun drinks dew upon a Devon hedge.
No more shall the sad wires transmit the dole
That gnaws into the soul.
And that vast company we call the dead
Shall know the flag of Peace flies overhead
Because of the new lightness of our tread.
In Flanders now the birds find their first wonder
Since that loud August thunder
That shattered the blue skies like broken glass.
The wonder now is that the thing is dead
That passed, with crimson tread,
Over the silken floor of fragrant grass—
The screaming, blatant woe
That turned his plowshare in the flowers and sowed,
By the quiet, dreaming road,
His crop of gleaming crosses, row on row.
Flow, flag, in the soft wind; blow, bugles, blow.

Like as a river dries up in the light
Our tears have blown to vapor.
The airplanes drop down in their droning flight
Like floating paper.
The gun that camouflaged her brutal throat
In Bourlon's thicket
Shall dream to-night in wonder at the note
Of some lone cricket.
And, where a maddened cuirassier grew gory
In that wild, sudden clash of yesterday,
Some docile, blue-eyed youth will sing a story,
And laughing, dancing children's feet will play.

The world is blown with color like a flower
In this triumphant hour.
The great procession grows, their shining feet
Sandalled with dewy peace.
I watch them passing up the city street;
Gaining on life a new and wondrous lease.
Old men who pick up life like a broken rose
Which they had thrown away;
Old women who unbind their temple snows
And comb them up for a new holiday;
Young maidens, all their spirits like the flow
Of the new melted snow;
Flow, flag, in the soft wind; blow, bugles, blow.

This that we hear is but a shining drop
In the glad sea of mirth.
The tide flows round the world and will not stop
Until it brims the earth.
The Bedouin Arab now invites his dance
Where the sandstorms croon;
And a mad company in lilting France
Unwind a rigadoon.
Down a soft English lane
Wild, happy, blue-eyed children chase the rain.
They wrap their throats in song from Maine to where
The Golden Gate unwinds her mist of hair.
One grief alone we have; blow, bugle, blow;
The crosses stand in Flanders, row on row.
They shall not watch with us to-day nor fare
On our bright bugles blare.

Flow, flag, in the soft wind; blow, bugles, blow;
And then, at e'en, when all the lights are dim,
Let us pour out our thanks in praise to Him
Who gave the peace we know.English