I dread not any form of wrath,
I hate not any sin;
Whatever grief assail my path,
It cannot come within.
For there secure my spirit reigns,
Serene amid unrest,
Since all that Life or Death contains
I hold within my breast.
WAR
Ripples of ribbons borne on high,
Bloodstains upon a brazen sky;
From cannon belching on the plain,
Fire that by fire is fought again.
A flash where steel by steel is met;
A fume of smoke and blood and sweat.
Sharp from the smeared and trodden gorse
The death-cry of a wounded horse.
Dust of a plain ground into red
By armies of majestic dead.
Gaunt shadows on the changeless sky,
A flock of vultures swarming nigh.
’Mid ashes where a hearth has stood,
Children that cry aloud for food.
Where green the peaceful highways run,
A woman ravished in the sun.
And far across the reeking sod
A Nation sounding thanks to God.
THE TRUE COMEDIAN
What if the road is rough, the dart
Of mischance levelled at thy breast?
Beyond the shudder and the smart,
Canst thou not see the jest?
What if the arrow in the sling
Was tipped with poison ere it flew?
Since thine the hurt and thine the sting,
Be thine the laughter too.
Canst thou not read the wit that lies
Beneath the bold burlesque of Fate?
Or art thou sick of parodies
Who playest with love and hate?
What! take the stage again and gasp
The comedy of self-control?—
Nay, better stand aside to grasp
The humour of the whole.