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Poem by Eleanor Farjeon
I. I am as awful as my brother War, I am the sudden silence after clamour. I am the face that shows the seamy scar When blood and frenzy has lost its glamour. Men in my pause shall know the cost at last That is not to be paid in triumphs or tears, Men will begin to judge the thing that's past As men will judge it in a hundred years. Nations! whose ravenous engines must be fed Endlessly with the father and the son, My naked light upon your darkness, dread! - By which ye shall behold what ye have done: Whereon, more like a vulture than a dove, Ye set my seal in hatred, not in love. II. Let no man call me good. I am not blest. My single virtue is the end of crimes, I only am the period of unrest, The ceasing of horrors of the times; My good is but the negative of ill, Such ill as bends the spirit with despair, Such ill as makes the nations' soul stand still And freeze to stone beneath a Gorgon glare. Be blunt, and say that peace is but a state Wherein the active soul is free to move, And nations only show as mean or great According to the spirit then they prove. - O which of ye whose battle-cry is Hate Will first in peace dare shout the name of Love?
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