[ FOR ALFRED NOYES ]
There is a rumor of eternal Peace;
The wonderful wild news sweeps through the world
That nevermore loud drums shall beat alarms,
Or bugles blow the awful songs of war.
There shall be silence where the sabers clashed,
And utter calm where once the cannon roared;
The Lord's green fields shall not be wet with blood,
But white with innocent daisies in the Spring;
And where the crashing cavalry once plunged
Our hearts shall hear the lyrics of the birds
When soft May mornings break in years to be.
No more shall men of alien races march
With fiery hearts and madness in their eyes
To crush their weaker brothers 'neath their heel;
Nor women wait through aching days of grief,
Through pitiless hours of barren loneliness
For husbands and young sons to come back home.
No more shall children stir in the long nights,
Dreaming of absent fathers; and no more
Shall faithful hounds whine at bleak thresholds, sick
For one whose feet fled when the trumpets called.
White Peace, the whisper runs, shall wrap the earth,
And hushed be all the thundering cannonade.
Wise men have dreamed this dream; and I have dared
To dream it every hour of the years.
When I have stood high on some starlit hill,
And watched the moon go her great silver way
In silence that was deeper than the heav'ns;
When I have seen the majesty of night,
And in my contemplation learned that life
Was but a thread on Time's immortal loom,
(My life the least of all), and nations less
Than ribbons that are fashioned at the last
In one divine, amazing, sumptuous plan,
Then I have wondered at our boast and pride,
And marveled at the shallowness of kings,
The madness of all those who rise to lead
Their little countries in tempestuous strife,
And break men's bodies, and break women's hearts.
Be swift, O laggard years, to bring that day
When Right shall be the master of old Might,
And Love with her soft processes shall see
Her hour triumphant and her legions large.
Tear down the bulwarks of incessant Hate,
And let pale Pity rise from the dull dust,
Her unfamiliar eyes two flashing stars
Emerging from the shadows of the deep.
But dream not there shall be eternal Peace,
Though red battalions have been scattered far,
And mighty armies lost like Autumn winds.
Call in the iron navies of the world,
And sink them in the ocean's monstrous heart;
Sunder the bastions of the universe,
The watchful forts that face the open sea;
Still we shall hear the rumors of great wars,
And see the smoke of conflict; we shall know
The old, old battle of the rich and poor —
The poor with watch-fires in the engine-room,
And regiments of children in the mills;
The rich with beacon lights upon their hearths,
And golden domes their perfumed tents at night.
But when wild Winter bares her icy sword,
One army shall remember Valley Forge,
And tremble at the menace of the days;
One army shall meet endless Waterloos
In the long line of years that sing defeat,
And in their tattered uniforms march on,
Till Death, the last Commander, bids them halt.
There shall be desolation in their eyes,
And sorrow where they pitch their city camps;
And rags shall be the emblem of their cause —
Sad banners that reveal their very shame.
Dream not of Peace eternal till there comes
Some hour supreme when these two hosts shall meet
In a great whirlwind of high brotherhood!
There is a rumor of eternal Peace;
The wonderful wild news sweeps through the world
That nevermore loud drums shall beat alarms,
Or bugles blow the awful songs of war.
There shall be silence where the sabers clashed,
And utter calm where once the cannon roared;
The Lord's green fields shall not be wet with blood,
But white with innocent daisies in the Spring;
And where the crashing cavalry once plunged
Our hearts shall hear the lyrics of the birds
When soft May mornings break in years to be.
No more shall men of alien races march
With fiery hearts and madness in their eyes
To crush their weaker brothers 'neath their heel;
Nor women wait through aching days of grief,
Through pitiless hours of barren loneliness
For husbands and young sons to come back home.
No more shall children stir in the long nights,
Dreaming of absent fathers; and no more
Shall faithful hounds whine at bleak thresholds, sick
For one whose feet fled when the trumpets called.
White Peace, the whisper runs, shall wrap the earth,
And hushed be all the thundering cannonade.
Wise men have dreamed this dream; and I have dared
To dream it every hour of the years.
When I have stood high on some starlit hill,
And watched the moon go her great silver way
In silence that was deeper than the heav'ns;
When I have seen the majesty of night,
And in my contemplation learned that life
Was but a thread on Time's immortal loom,
(My life the least of all), and nations less
Than ribbons that are fashioned at the last
In one divine, amazing, sumptuous plan,
Then I have wondered at our boast and pride,
And marveled at the shallowness of kings,
The madness of all those who rise to lead
Their little countries in tempestuous strife,
And break men's bodies, and break women's hearts.
Be swift, O laggard years, to bring that day
When Right shall be the master of old Might,
And Love with her soft processes shall see
Her hour triumphant and her legions large.
Tear down the bulwarks of incessant Hate,
And let pale Pity rise from the dull dust,
Her unfamiliar eyes two flashing stars
Emerging from the shadows of the deep.
But dream not there shall be eternal Peace,
Though red battalions have been scattered far,
And mighty armies lost like Autumn winds.
Call in the iron navies of the world,
And sink them in the ocean's monstrous heart;
Sunder the bastions of the universe,
The watchful forts that face the open sea;
Still we shall hear the rumors of great wars,
And see the smoke of conflict; we shall know
The old, old battle of the rich and poor —
The poor with watch-fires in the engine-room,
And regiments of children in the mills;
The rich with beacon lights upon their hearths,
And golden domes their perfumed tents at night.
But when wild Winter bares her icy sword,
One army shall remember Valley Forge,
And tremble at the menace of the days;
One army shall meet endless Waterloos
In the long line of years that sing defeat,
And in their tattered uniforms march on,
Till Death, the last Commander, bids them halt.
There shall be desolation in their eyes,
And sorrow where they pitch their city camps;
And rags shall be the emblem of their cause —
Sad banners that reveal their very shame.
Dream not of Peace eternal till there comes
Some hour supreme when these two hosts shall meet
In a great whirlwind of high brotherhood!