Whose lives are bound
By sleep and custom and tranquillity
Have never found
That peace which is a riven mystery
Who only share
The calm that doth this stream, these orchards bless,
Breathe but the air
Of unimpassioned pagan quietness....
Initiate,
Pain burns about your head, an aureole,
Who hold in state
The utter joy which wounds and heals the soul.
You kiss the Rod
With dumb, glad lips, and bear to worlds apart
The peace of God
Which passeth all understanding in your heart.
CARRION
THE guns are silent for an hour; the sounds
Of war forget their doom; the work is done—
Strong men, uncounted corpses heaped in mounds,
Are rotting in the sun.
Foul carrion—souls till yesterday!—are these
With piteous faces in the bloodied mire;
But where are now their generous charities?
Their laughter, their desire?
In each rent breast, each crushed and shattered skull
Lived joy and sorrow, tenderness and pain,
Hope, ardours, passions brave and beautiful
Among these thousands slain!
A little time ago they heard the call
Of mating birds in thicket and in brake;
They wondering saw night’s jewelled curtain fall
And all the pale stars wake....