War is Kind — Background and Themes

There was a man with tongue of wood Who essayed to sing, And in truth it was lamentable. But there was one who heard The clip-clapper of this tongue of wood And knew what the man Wished to sing, And with that the singer was content.

The successful man has thrust himself Through the water of the years, Reeking wet with mistakes,-- Bloody mistakes; 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."

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.