Part 3 — CHAPTER XI HOW TO READ POETRY (continued 6)

I I cut the air and it sang to me Like a serpent’s hiss with its fangèd kiss, And the leaping leagues upsprang to me; But I passed them all with the battle’s call, As with maddening joy I scream, I screamed The death which the wrathful warrior dreamed. The mad red death which the warrior dreamed. I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song. Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong. I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain. Home among vines and green fields, Cattle and horses and sheep, Husband and wife in the joy of their life, Children that play, children that pray, On the bosom a babe and its lullabied sleep. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds. Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep. ’Neath a Belgian sky sang this lullaby. But why; why do the children cry, As the husband true bids a brave good-by? O why do the children and women weep As the war-woes over their gladness creep? O this red! red! red! O this blood I have shed When from rifles of warriors I leap; And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank, But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank. Siep! siep! siep! The blood runs apace, and gone is the face Of baby and wife, Of love and of life Siep! siep! siep! When from rifles of warriors I leap. This, this is why sweet children cry And wives and mothers vainly weep. II I tear the air, and its fine silk rips As my kill-song sings from the rifle’s lips, I destroy air-joy which the glad birds sing When in love and life the winds they wing; Theirs is a song of love and life! Mine is a snarl of hate and strife! The mad red snarl of hate and strife. I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song. Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong. I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain. A school, a teacher and pupils bright, Lessons and laughter and play, Girls and boys in their school-day joys, Maid and youth in their search for truth; Then home in the shades of the rounded day. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep. In the German tongue this sleep-song sung. But why; why do the children cry, As the husband true bids a brave good-by? O why do the women and children weep As the war-woes over their gladness creep? O this red! red! red! O this blood I have shed When from rifles of warriors I leap; And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank, But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank. Siep! siep! siep! The blood runs apace, and gone is the face Of baby and wife, Of love and of life. Siep! siep! siep! When from rifles of warriors I leap. This, this is why sweet children cry And wives and mothers vainly weep. III I murder the peace of summer winds; I startle the kine and make dogs whine; I’m the fury of fight, I’m hell’s delight; I’m the black of death with its stiffening breath; I’m insanity’s shriek as I try to speak; I am agony’s glare and its wild despair; I’m the hiss elate of the warrior’s hate, The mad, red hiss of the warrior’s hate. I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song. Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong. I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain. A hammer and anvil and lowly cot, Blossoms ashine and the fruitful vine, The flying of sparks, the singing of larks And the rapturing stir of the voice of her, Outsinging the larks in her joys divine. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep. In joy-hearted France sings this love’s romance. But why; why do the children cry, As the husband true bids a brave good-by? O why do the children and women weep As the war-woes over their gladness creep? O this red! red! red! O this blood I have shed When from rifles of warriors I leap; And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank, But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank. Siep! siep! siep! The blood runs apace, and gone is the face Of baby and wife, Of love and of life. Siep! siep! siep! When from rifles of warriors I leap. This, this is why sweet children cry. And wives and mothers vainly weep. IV I am rifle-sent, and the air is rent In tatters and rags and stains; I burn my path of the warrior’s wrath Too hot to be cooled by rains; I murder the song of the rapturing thrush As I chant war’s wrath with its ripping rush. The mad red wrath with its ripping rush. His is a song of love and life, Mine is a screech of hate and strife. I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song. Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong. I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain. A meadow alined by English lanes; And Shelley’s lark is in the sky, And Shakespeare’s sheep, in clover deep; A house by the spring and a grapevine swing, A mother’s song and a babe’s reply. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep. Child hearts rejoice in this English voice. But why; why do the children cry, As the husband true bids a brave good-by? O why do the children and women weep As the war-woes over their gladness creep? O this red! red! red! O this blood I have shed When from rifles of warriors I leap; And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank, But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank. Siep! siep! siep! The blood runs apace, and gone is the face Of baby and wife, Of love and of life. Siep! siep! siep! When from rifles of warriors I leap. This, this is why sweet children cry And wives and mothers vainly weep. V I’m a blighting swift, outflying storms, I ruin and run as I shriek my fun; With a screech of fear in the startled ear, I crush the hope and distill the tear, The tear of love, the hope of hearts; I blight and blast with Destruction’s arts. With the mad, red blight of Destruction’s arts. I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song. Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong. I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in the heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain. The Danube blue, the Alsatian heights, And a lover who sings to his maiden true, The song and the kiss, the troth and its bliss, Two hearts abeat in the love complete, And the brown eyes marry the eyes of blue. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep. An Austrian sings these rapturings. But why; why do the children cry, As the husband true bids a brave good-by? O why do the children and women weep As the war-woes over their gladness creep? O this red! red! red! O this blood I have shed When from rifles of warriors I leap; And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank, But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank. Siep! siep! siep! The blood runs apace, and gone is the face Of baby and wife, Of love and of life. Siep! siep! siep! When from rifles of warriors I leap. This, this is why sweet children cry And wives and mothers vainly weep. VI I cut the air with growls of wrath; I am black woe’s bite as I bark and fight, I’m the mad dog’s fang, and I lead the gang As we wolf together on war’s red path; We rend the flesh, and we wreck the mind; We’re the war-wrath’s lust, and we’re wild and blind,— The red wrath’s lust that is wild and blind. I sing! sing! sing! the wrathful warrior’s song. Then ping! ping! ping! ’tis the wrathful warrior’s wrong. I red in the heart of the foe, Fulfilling the warrior’s woe. But this I see before I go— A beauty blackening battle’s show; Pictures of home in heart and brain That blot and blank in my war’s refrain. A bearded peasant and Tolstoy’s book, Fulfilling the Christ’s great way of peace, His neighbors, dear as the ripened year; ’Twas a neighbor’s girl with laugh and curl Who mothered his flock of the sweet increase. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep! Christ is the shepherd of His sheep, And lambs like you to His heart he folds, And safely holds, all safely holds, Till the dark night dies in the arms of day, When He kisses my lamb awake to play. Sleep! sleep! sleep! my baby, sleep. Like a Russian dove croons this song of love. But why; why do the children cry, As the husband true bids a brave good-by? O why do the children and women weep As the war-woes over their gladness creep? O this red! red! red! O this blood I have shed When from rifles of warriors I leap; And the pictures grow dim, and the pictures grow blank, But the weeds on this field will grow poison and rank. Siep! siep! siep! The blood runs apace, and gone is the face Of baby and wife. Of love and of life. Siep! siep! siep! When from rifles of warriors I leap. This, this is why sweet children cry And wives and mothers vainly weep. VII ’Twas wild wrath-riot, ’twas riot of death, This bacchanal black making war’s red wrack, This blood debauch and delirium, Love’s hand palsied, truth’s tongue dumb,— Blotting brave brains of mothers’ refrains, Voices of children, enchantments of home, The-Cathedral-of-man’s earth-rounding dome Which visioning together might well have wrought, Out of the heart of brothering thought. And now that our screaming wrath is done, And our place in the sky is filled with birds Whose songs seem the voice of the gracious sun, Behind us the wrath and the ruin left, We are bruised and broken in fields bereft Of their gentle flocks and peaceful herds; We know, we know in our black war-woe, There’s not a grace of gain for it all, There’s not a spear of grain from it all. O woe are we in this rusted red, And woe the hearts which we’ve pierced and bled; No honor is here, no glory bright, But shame that is deeper than speech can tell, But shame that is blacker than pits of hell, The shame of a night unblessed by light, The shame of a brain with its murder stain, And a heart in the grime of war’s red crime. Woe! woe! woe, is the end of the path That blackens and blights from war’s red wrath. This, this is why sweet children cry And wives and mothers vainly weep— As the war-woes over their gladness creep.