Peace is the thing with petals,
That grows upon a field,
At noon, a sight on which to swoon,
Disarmors cynic's shield.

And most beauteous in sight beheld,
And bliss must be its name,
That marks the soul indelibly,
And gives it a golden frame.

I've held it in between my thumbs,
And braided it in hair,
There'll be garlands of Peace at my graveside,
As I ascend the stair.