War is Kind

When the prophet, a complacent fat
man,
Arrived at the mountain-top,
He cried: “Woe to my knowledge!
“I intended to see good white lands
“And bad black lands,
“But the scene is grey.”

There was a land where lived no
violets.
A traveller at once demanded: “Why?”
The people told him:
“Once the violets of this place spoke thus:
“’Until some woman freely give her lover
“’To another woman
“’We will fight in bloody scuffle.’”
Sadly the people added:
“There are no violets here.”

There was one I met upon the road
Who looked at me with kind eyes.
He said: “Show me of your wares.”
And I did,
Holding forth one,
He said: “It is a sin.”
Then I held forth another.
He said: “It is a sin.”
Then I held forth another.
He said: “It is a sin.”
And so to the end.
Always He said: “It is a sin.”
At last, I cried out:
“But I have non other.”
He looked at me
With kinder eyes.
“Poor soul,” he said.

Aye, workman, make me a dream,
A dream for my love.
Cunningly weave sunlight,
Breezes, and flowers.
Let it be of the cloth of meadows.
And—good workman—
And let there be a man walking thereon.

Each small gleam was a voice,
A lantern voice—
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colors came over the water;
The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
No pines crooned on the hills,
The blue night was elsewhere a silence,
When the chorus of colors came over the
water,
Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

Small glowing pebbles
Thrown on the dark plane of evening
Sing good ballads of God
And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers,
None can doubt the truth of hour hymning.
When the marvellous chorus comes over the
water,
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

The trees in the garden rained flowers.
Children ran there joyously.
They gathered the flowers
Each to himself.
Now there were some
Who gathered great heaps—
Having opportunity and skill—
Until, behold, only chance blossoms
Remained for the feeble.
Then a little spindling tutor
Ran importantly to the father, crying:
“Pray, come hither!
“See this unjust thing in your garden!”
But when the father had surveyed,
He admonished the tutor:
“Not so, small sage!
“This thing is just.
“For, look you,
“Are not they who possess the flowers
“Stronger, bolder, shrewder
“Than they who have none?
“Why should the strong—
“The beautiful strong—
“Why should they not have the flowers?

Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the
ground.
“My lord,” he said,
“The stars are displaced
“By this towering wisdom.”

INTRIGUE

Thou art my love,