The Second Book of Modern Verse Part 32

Though wisdom underfoot Dies in the b.l.o.o.d.y fields, Slowly the endless root Gathers again and yields.

In fields where hate has hurled Its force, where folly rots, Wisdom shall be unfurled Small as forget-me-nots.

In Spite of War. [Angela Morgan]

In spite of war, in spite of death, In spite of all man's sufferings, Something within me laughs and sings And I must praise with all my breath.

In spite of war, in spite of hate Lilacs are blooming at my gate, Tulips are tripping down the path In spite of war, in spite of wrath.

"Courage!" the morning-glory saith; "Rejoice!" the daisy murmureth, And just to live is so divine When pansies lift their eyes to mine.

The clouds are romping with the sea, And flas.h.i.+ng waves call back to me That naught is real but what is fair, That everywhere and everywhere A glory liveth through despair.

Though guns may roar and cannon boom, Roses are born and gardens bloom; My spirit still may light its flame At that same torch whence poppies came.

Where morning's altar whitely burns Lilies may lift their silver urns In spite of war, in spite of shame.

And in my ear a whispering breath, "Wake from the nightmare! Look and see That life is naught but ecstasy In spite of war, in spite of death!"

Wide Haven. [Clement Wood]

Tired of man's futile, petty cry, Of lips that lie and flout, I saw the slow sun dim and die And the slim dusk slip out . . .

Life held no room for doubt.

What though Death claim the ones I prize In War's insane crusade, Last night I saw Orion rise And the great day-star fade, And I am not dismayed.

To Any one. [Witter Bynner]

Whether the time be slow or fast, Enemies, hand in hand, Must come together at the last And understand.

No matter how the die is cast Nor who may seem to win, You know that you must love at last -- Why not begin?

Peace. [Agnes Lee]

Suddenly bells and flags!

Suddenly -- door to door -- Tidings! Can we believe, We, who were used to war?

Yet we have dreamed her face, Knowing her light must be, Knowing that she must come.

Look -- she comes, it is she!

Tattered her raiment floats, Blood is upon her wings.

Ah, but her eyes are clear!

Ah, but her voice outrings!

Soon where the shrapnel fell Petals shall wake and stir.

Look -- she is here, she lives!

Beauty has died for her.

The Kings are pa.s.sing Deathward. [David Morton]

The Kings are pa.s.sing deathward in the dark Of days that had been splendid where they went; Their crowns are captive and their courts are stark Of purples that are ruinous, now, and rent.

For all that they have seen disastrous things: The shattered pomp, the split and shaken throne, They cannot quite forget the way of Kings: Gravely they pa.s.s, majestic and alone.

With thunder on their brows, their faces set Toward the eternal night of restless shapes, They walk in awful splendor, regal yet, Wearing their crimes like rich and kingly capes . . .

Curse them or taunt, they will not hear or see; The Kings are pa.s.sing deathward: let them be.

Jerico. [Willard Wattles]

Jerico, Jerico, Round and round the walls I go Where they watch with scornful eyes, Where the captained bastions rise; Heel and toe, heel and toe, Blithely round the walls I go.

Jerico, Jerico, Round and round the walls I go . . .

All the golden ones of earth Regal in their lordly mirth . . .

Heel and toe, heel and toe, Round and round the walls I go.

Jerico, Jerico, Blithely round the walls I go, With a broken sword in hand Where the mighty bastions stand; Heel and toe, heel and toe, Hear my silly bugle blow.

Heel and toe, heel and toe, Round the walls of Jerico . . .

Past the haughty golden gate Where the emperor in state Smiles to see the ragged show, Round and round the towers go.

Jerico, Jerico, Round and round and round I go . . .