War is Kind

Slimed with victories over the lesser,
A figure thankful on the shore of money.
Then, with the bones of fools
He buys silken banners
Limned with his triumphant face;
With the skins of wise men
He buys the trivial bows of all.
Flesh painted with marrow
Contributes a coverlet,
A coverlet for his contented slumber.
In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt,
He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.
“Thus I defended: Thus I wrought.”
Complacent, smiling,
He stands heavily on the dead.
Erect on a pillar of skulls
He declaims his trampling of babes;
Smirking, fat, dripping,
He makes speech in guiltless ignorance,
Innocence.

In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.
“O Master that movest the wind with a
finger,
“Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
“Grant that we may run swiftly across
the world
“To huddle in worship at Thy feet.”

In the morning
A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,
And the little black cities were apparent.
“O Master that knowest the meaning of raindrops,
“Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
“Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
“That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun.”

In the evening
The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
“O Master,
“Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds,
“Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks.
“Thous only needest eternal patience;
“We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord—
“Humble, idle, futile peaks.”

In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffles the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.

Blood—blood and torn grass—
Had marked the rise of his agony—
This lone hunter.
The grey-green woods impassive
Had watched the threshing of his limbs.

A canoe with flashing paddle,
A girl with soft searching eyes,
A call: “John!”
.       .       .       .       .       .       .
Come, arise, hunter!
Can you not hear?

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.

The impact of a dollar upon the heart
Smiles warm red light,
Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the
white table,
With the hanging cool velvet shadows
Moving softly upon the door.

The impact of a million dollars
Is a crash of flunkys,
And yawning emblems of Persia
Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre,
The outcry of old beauty
Whored by pimping merchants
To submission before wine and chatter.
Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men,
Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light
Into their woof, their lives;
The rug of an honest bear
Under the feet of a cryptic slave
Who speaks always of baubles,
Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state,
Champing and mouthing of hats,
Making ratful squeak of hats,
Hats.

A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
“A sense of obligation.”