SONNETS OF THE GREAT PEACE

“Incertainties now crown themselves assured And peace proclaims olives of endless age.” —Shakespeare’s Sonnet CVII.

What boon is this, this fresh and crystal thing, Perfect as snow, dropped from the deep of the sky— This healing, shed as from the soft swift wing Of some great mystical bird low-sweeping by? This music suddenly thrilling through the mind Angelic unimagined ecstasy, As when warm fingers of the Spring unbind Young brooks that laugh and leap, at last being free? By what white magic, what unfathomed art, Was this best gift secretly perfected, This amulet, that laid against the heart Melts all the icy weight that held it dead? This is that Peace we had and did not know; This is that Peace we lost—how long ago!

Shall we not now work wonders with this charm, To the vext heart of the world benignly laid, Fending all future golden lads from harm, And all gray mothers, and every starry maid? Yea, all kind beasts that ask with patient eyes Our wisdom to forestall bewildering pain: Yea, all kind fields, trees rippling to the skies, Brown earth sweet-breathing under natural rain. Shall we not now, being freed, being healed of Peace, Retrieve all days to be from blot and blight, Give to the chained goodwill of Man release, And a new deed of manumission write On a new page, made by this marvellous boon Pure as unfooted snow under the moon?

How did we cast away our careless days In that old time before we knew their worth, Wandering with chance, even as a child that strays, Spilling their unprized splendors on the earth! But now we have eaten War as daily bread, Borne it upon our souls a weary weight, Made it the pillow to a restless head, Breathed it as air, sick with the reek of hate: And Peace is come a stranger, and grave-eyed, Like a young maid turned woman; on our knees We do her reverence as a spirit enskyed; How should we spend such shining days as these? They have cost great pain: needs must we hold them dear, Counting our jewels with a heavenly fear.

Ghosts of great flags that billowed in the sun With glorious colors above the crowded street, Lifting our hearts to know the rent world one, Teaching the march of Man to hurrying feet, Shall ye not haunt those skyward spaces still With memory of your sun-illumined streaming, Bright brother-angels heralding goodwill, Beckoners of sordid spirits to noble dreaming? Or shall your many beauteous blazonries Fade out from the dulled sense and be forgot, And intimations so august as these Lapse into silence even as they were not, Comrades turn rivals, and heart-fast allies Weavers of schemes, peering with insect eyes?

What shame were this to those who lie asleep Under the scarlet poppies, having bought A clean new world with blood! Shall we not keep Faith with our dead, and give them what they sought? Is not a world the measure of our debt To those whose young lives sadly we inherit, Living them out, making them fruitful yet? What lesser meed fits their transcendent merit? The future was their sacrificial gift, And joy unborn, and beauty uncreate, And little children that should racing lift Their torch of life, laughing at death and fate: Shall we not make, mindful of all they gave, A star of this old earth which is their grave?