And then these passionate hot protestings Changed to less vehement moods, until They sank to sad suggestings And requestings sadder still: "And oh, if the world might some time see 'Tis not a law of necessity That a trade just naught but a trade must be! Does business mean, _Die, you--live, I?_ Then 'business is business' phrases a lie: 'Tis only war grown miserly. If Traffic is battle, name it so: War-crimes less will shame it so, And we victims less will blame it so. But oh, for the poor to have some part In the sweeter half of life called Art, Is not a problem of head, but of heart. Vainly might Plato's head revolve it: Plainly the heart of a child could solve it." And then, as when our words seem all too rude We cease from speech, to take our thought and brood Back in our heart's great dark and solitude, So sank the strings to heartwise throbbing, Of long chords change-marked with sobbing-- Motherly sobbing, not distinctlier heard Than half wing-openings of the sleeping bird, Some dream of danger to her young hath stirred. Then stirring and demurring ceased, and lo! Every least ripple of the strings' song flow Died to a level with each level bow, And made a great chord tranquil-surfaced so As a brook beneath his curving bank doth go To linger in the sacred dark and green Where many boughs the still pool overlean, And many leaves make shadow with their sheen. But presently A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly Upon the bosom of that harmony, And sailed and sailed incessantly, As if a petal from a wild-rose blown Had fluttered down upon that pool of tone, And boatwise dropped o' the convex side And floated down the glassy tide, And clarified and glorified The solemn spaces where the shadows bide.