Poem by Henry Austin Dobson

* * *

“When there is Peace our land no more
Will be the land we knew of yore.”
Thus do our facile seers foretell
The truth that none can buy or sell
And e’en the wisest must ignore.

When we have bled at every pore,
Shall we still strive for gear and store?
Will it be Heaven? Will it be Hell,
When there is Peace?

This let us pray for, this implore:
That all base dreams thrust out at door,
We may in loftier aims excel
And, like men waking from a spell,
Grow stronger, nobler, than before,
When there is Peace. 

1. On the Future of Poetry
2. When Burbadge Played
3. The Forgotten Grave
4. Incognita
5. O Fons Bandusae

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