Further and further we leave the scene Of war--and of England's care; I try to keep my mind serene-- But my heart stays there; For a distant song of pain and wrong My spirit doth deep confuse, And I sit all day on the deck, and long-- And long for news! I seem to see them in battle-line-- Heroes with hearts of gold, But of their victory a sign The Fates withhold; And the hours too tardy-footed pass, The voiceless hush grows dense 'Mid the imaginings, alas! That feed suspense. Oh, might I lie on the wind, or fly In the wilful sea-bird's track, Would I hurry on, with a homesick cry-- Or hasten back? _Florence Earle Coates_ THE ANVIL Burned from the ore's rejected dross, The iron whitens in the heat. With plangent strokes of pain and loss The hammers on the iron beat. Searched by the fire, through death and dole We feel the iron in our soul. O dreadful Forge! if torn and bruised The heart, more urgent comes our cry Not to be spared but to be used, Brain, sinew, and spirit, before we die. Beat out the iron, edge it keen, And shape us to the end we mean! _Laurence Binyon_ THE FOOL RINGS HIS BELLS Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And Love--a lad with broken wing; And Pity, too: The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing. Ay, music hath small sense, And a tune's soon told, And Earth is old, And my poor wits are dense; Yet have I secrets,--dark, my dear, To breathe you all: Come near. And lest some hideous listener tells, I'll ring my bells. They're all at war! Yes, yes, their bodies go 'Neath burning sun and icy star To chaunted songs of woe, Dragging cold cannon through a mud Of rain and blood; The new moon glinting hard on eyes Wide with insanities! Hush!... I use words I hardly know the meaning of; And the mute birds Are glancing at Love! From out their shade of leaf and flower, Trembling at treacheries Which even in noonday cower, Heed, heed not what I said Of frenzied hosts of men, More fools than I, On envy, hatred fed, Who kill, and die-- Spake I not plainly, then? Yet Pity whispered, "Why?" Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go. Mine was not news for child to know, And Death--no ears hath. He hath supped where creep Eyeless worms in hush of sleep; Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws Athwart his grinning jaws Faintly their thin bones rattle, and.... There, there; Hearken how my bells in the air Drive away care!... Nay, but a dream I had Of a world all mad. Not a simple happy mad like me, Who am mad like an empty scene Of water and willow tree, Where the wind hath been; But that foul Satan-mad, Who rots in his own head, And counts the dead, Not honest one--and two-- But for the ghosts they were, Brave, faithful, true, When, head in air, In Earth's dear green and blue Heaven they did share With Beauty who bade them there....