And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow ,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings ;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow ,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore ;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray ,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
“Defeatist,” I declare. “Peace propaganda. Stop the war. And you notice—”
Wolfe cut me off. “Pfui. It was written fifty years ago, by Yeats.” He wiggled a finger at the stack of junk on my desk. “Nothing in that?”