Thou still undefiled woman of solitude,
Thou stray-child of tranquility and ****** duration,
War historian, who can relate openly
The milk-spilled more sweetly than the little dame:
What metals and cartridges shaped and haunt sound
Of mortals or divinities, or of both,
On-field or the vale of earth?
What sights are these? Sights a dame loathe?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What shout of chivalry? What wild ecstasy?
History be told: war is dreadful, but those unheard
Are more dreadful; so, furnace heart, be still;
Say no more to my sensual ear, least, endangered
My soul seeking sensual tone:
For the melodies coming beneath the trees,
Ever songs can those trees be bare;
Shy lovers, sharing a willing kiss,
Almost to the winning goal; do not grieve:
Share the bliss, it fade not as she with thee
Forever wilt thy love blossom, if only you yield!
Oh! Happy, gladly thrill that blood not shed,
With back at the past bading goodbye;
And, happy psalmist, unretired,
Melody sang melody anew;
For more happy love; peace we sang,
For ever warm and still; peace we sang,
For surviving babes and vigorous youth; peace we sang:
Passion and love beyond colour and skin
That drained the heart high-sorrowful tone,
Beauty is honest, honest beauty- that is all.
The vanities of war.
