Now the peace of a dove
Is sent into the world
On stronger enduring wings—
The peace of a mighty world,
Rises on sturdier wings.
The doves must rest awhile;
The sky is filling now
With wings of a mightier make.
What of the flying planes,
The noble charging planes,
The squadrons of flying planes,
Sweeping the fields of sky,
Hovering over the earth?
That is the new Parliament.
The wingèd Parliament,
The true Parliament,
Which comes to bring us peace.
Watch in the vault of heaven
Where soaring birdmen fly—
On a splendid errantry,
The Parliament of Peace!
The child smiles doubtfully; but the tenderness in the war correspondent’s voice gains his confidence; he slips his hand into the stranger’s, saying almost gayly:
You talk like the Woodcarver,
A wonderful talk of wings.
Oh! come and see the Woodcarver,
And hear his wonderful things,
The way he reads the message
This dreadful war-time brings.
The two cross the deserted piazza toward the cálles where there are many little shops and booths now all boarded up; one, however, remains open. It is a small, dark, dingy cave, with small wooden angels, beautifully carved, festooned over the doorway. As one peers into the dimness of the interior, one has the sense of the fluttering of delicate carved wings. The Woodcarver comes to the door; he has in one hand his chisel, in the other a shapeless block of olive wood. The Woodcarver is old and bowed, but as he lifts his cavernous, dark eyes he smiles, and his whole face is irradiated with a look of the genius of simplicity.
Woodcarver to the war correspondent:
Bon Giorno. Ah, Signore!
Welcome forestiere!
Strangers are good to see.
It is like those other days,
When they drifted over the square
Like scattered, unstrung beads,
Or corn flung to the doves—
Or stood in the twilight churches,
Staring through the incense,
Hearing the organ roll,
And priests voice imploring
The Virgin’s intercession.
American, placing his hand on the old man’s arm;
’Tis good to find someone here,
Only officials greet me
Along the shivering streets.
Where are the people of Venice?
The lazy and happy and motley?
The vendors and hawkers and idlers?
The shop keepers and glass blowers?
The courtly bankers and merchants?
Ah! it is lonely in Venice.
Woodcarver, his cracked voice faltering:
All fled to ancient Padua,
To the Good St. Anthony.
And we—we only stay
To watch the doves—and pray.