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So War hath still some ruth? some sense of shame? The Crown of Thorns hath reverence even now? For when the summons to that village came, They spared the Christ of Oberammergau. Enlist the actors of that sacred mime— Paul, Peter, Pilate—Judas too, I trow; Spurn Christ of Galilee, but (O sublime!) Revere the Christ of Oberammergau. |
TO A FRENCH BABY
Marcel Gaillard, Baby number 6 in Life's fund for
French war-orphans
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What unsaid messages arise Behind your clear and wondering eyes, O grave and tiny citizen? And who, of wise and valiant men, Can answer those mute questionings? I think the captains and the kings Might well kneel in humility Before you on your mother's knee, As knelt, beside a stable door, Other great men, long before. In you, poor little lad, one sees All children and all mothers' knees: All voices inarticulate That cry against the hymns of hate; All homes, by Thames or Rhine or Seine, Where cradles will not rock again. |
AFTER HEARING GERMAN MUSIC
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What pang of beauty is in all these songs, Flooding the heart with painful bliss within— Was this the folk to which Von Kluck belongs, The land of poison gas and Zeppelin? Most gifted race the world has ever known, Now bleeding in the dust of rank despairs,— Was it for this men builded at Cologne, Kant wrote at midnight, Schumann dreamed his airs? |