What gain in the day of battle--to the Russ, to the German, what gain, The Czech, and the Pole, and the Finn, and the Schleswig Dane? The Cry of the Little Peoples goes up to God in vain, For the world is given over to the cruel sons of Cain; The hand that would bless us is weak, and the hand that would break us is strong, And the power of pity is nought but the power of a song. The dreams that our fathers dreamed to-day are laughter and dust, And nothing at all in the world is left for a man to trust; Let us hope no more, or dream, or prophesy, or pray, For the iron world no less will crash on its iron way; Yea! nothing is left but to watch, with a helpless, pitying eye, The kind old aims for the world, and the kind old fashions die. THE ILLUSION OF WAR War I abhor, And yet how sweet The sound along the marching street Of drum and fife, and I forget Wet eyes of widows, and forget Broken old mothers, and the whole Dark butchery without a soul. Without a soul--save this bright drink Of heady music, sweet as hell; And even my peace-abiding feet Go marching with the marching street, For yonder, yonder goes the fife, And what care I for human life! The tears fill my astonished eyes And my full heart is like to break, And yet 'tis all embannered lies, A dream those little drummers make. O it is wickedness to clothe Yon hideous grinning thing that stalks Hidden in music, like a queen That in a garden of glory walks, Till good men love the thing they loathe. Art, thou hast many infamies, But not an infamy like this; O snap the fife and still the drum, And show the monster as she is. CHRISTMAS IN WAR-TIME 1 This is the year that has no Christmas Day, Even the little children must be told That something sad is happening far away-- Or, if you needs must play, As children must, Play softly children, underneath your breath! For over our hearts hangs low the shadow of death, Those hearts to you mysteriously old, Grim grown-up hearts that ponder night and day On the straight lists of broken-hearted dead, Black narrow lists no tears can wash away, Reading in which one cries out here and here And falls into a dream upon a name. Be happy softly, children, for a woe Is on us, a great woe for little fame,-- Ah! in the old woods leave the mistletoe, And leave the holly for another year, Its berries are too red. 2