The silence gathered and rolled above us fold upon exquisite fold,
Till tenderness made me eager to shout and to sing aloud in the positive light of Day,
And to see the early marching sun brushing the fields and the town I love with his gold-shod feet,
And wrapping the flowers and the intimate personal trees in the sudden flame of his breath.
Christ; Christ; Christ;—
That this day dawned;
Peace; Peace; Peace—
Raped and mangled and dead,
And none to lay a healing hand for easement on her head.
War; War; War—
Came with withering day.
Ancient cruel songs
From red throats hurled
And none to sing a healing song of peace in all the world.
The sunlight is a wound to me and Jesus Christ has rotted overnight,
And peace is now a corpse whose naked body lies half cold upon a shield.
The morning wind has grown a hawk’s strong claws,
And nothing brings my heart so near to breaking as sunlight surging over the long grass.
The Masses Edmond McKenna
THE OTHER ARMY
O’er ruined road past draggled field,
O’er twisted stones of shaken street,
Marches an army terrible,
The army of the bleeding feet,—
Of skirted feet that now first leave
Immaculate field and kitchen floor,—
Old feet that slept beside the hearth,
Wee feet that twinkled by the door.
To strange world past the parish line
(More strange with sound and sight to-day),
Recruited fast at every hedge,
The gathering army takes its way.
Commanders? Aye, they trudge ahead,—
Not badge but babe on every breast.
The troops? They straggle at her skirt,
From tot to crone, in ranks ill-drest.