12 1919

Peace, for whose presence did we erewhile call

With cry sincere, vowing (God knoweth, those

Prótests how passionate were) to love thee all,

Yet when thou camest, pander’d to thy foes

Weaklier than ever, now again the throes

Convulse our being; now, Peace, may’st thou see,

This lust-devoted land is not for thee.

Farewell! Small wonder is it if thou flee

Such faithlessness, yet doth thy memory still

Dwell in each place where thou hast walked with me,

In dawn’s fresh mead or by noon’s shady rill,

Or when cool evening wafteth, on our hill;

Allwheres that beauty’s comfort-laden breath

Sootheth tired sorrow till it slumbereth.