 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
88
Unto the End
Though the rivers of crystal run blood till the seas are blood,
And the lands which were for proud harvests gape livid with death;
And the goodness we had of the days is emptied for ever of good,
And for ever the balm of the silver night faileth and perisheth;
And though from the womb our sons know only to rage and kill,
And our daughters forget that a bride is wed not for widow but wife;
And War, which the wise of their wisdom accounted the chiefest ill,
Boasteth itself for the glory and blessing and purport of life;
Yea, though these things were established for ever—how should we quail,
Or falter, or doubt that the sheer, stark soul of us shall prevail?
And the lands which were for proud harvests gape livid with death;
And the goodness we had of the days is emptied for ever of good,
And for ever the balm of the silver night faileth and perisheth;
And though from the womb our sons know only to rage and kill,
And our daughters forget that a bride is wed not for widow but wife;
And War, which the wise of their wisdom accounted the chiefest ill,
Boasteth itself for the glory and blessing and purport of life;
Yea, though these things were established for ever—how should we quail,
Or falter, or doubt that the sheer, stark soul of us shall prevail?
89
We are done with the laughter and solace, the softness, the bloom,
The clusters and sheaves of content, the honey and milk;
We are gone from the beautiful places unto the brinks of doom,
Where that is sharp which was sweet and that is steel which was silk,
And that is woe which was flesh, and hurt which was delight,
And the fairest and kindest love must sort with a lurking hate,
And the heart of pity be stone within her, and wrong be but right,
And our very prayers are for power to punish and desolate;
Yea, stript to the spirit we stand, naked and very sure
Of naught but the spirit, which, if it triumph not, yet shall endure.
The clusters and sheaves of content, the honey and milk;
We are gone from the beautiful places unto the brinks of doom,
Where that is sharp which was sweet and that is steel which was silk,
And that is woe which was flesh, and hurt which was delight,
And the fairest and kindest love must sort with a lurking hate,
And the heart of pity be stone within her, and wrong be but right,
And our very prayers are for power to punish and desolate;
Yea, stript to the spirit we stand, naked and very sure
Of naught but the spirit, which, if it triumph not, yet shall endure.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |