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THOUGHTS ON ARMISTICE DAY.

Here, where seven years ago the pride of peace,
Won at the bayonets point, had moved us so
We hammered sounding tin and passed to blow
Strange trumpets for the hate we deemed should cease,
We stand in wonder. Haggling years increase
The discord more than that wild hour might know
When clamorous joy was maddened in the glow
Of greater lights than shone on Rome and Greece.

We dreamed so greatly that we wonder still,
Looking at red Damascus and the white
Sad face of Russia, while the serpent hiss
Of Europe sounds above the broken will
Of nations that fell roaring in their might.
Seven years ago our throats were hoarse for this!

II.

France, with a dripping sword in each strained hand,
Pleads penury, her tongue within her cheek,
While statesmen, fumbling for the word, still seek
Some magic formula to lift the land.
Unhappily the little nations stand
Raging at fancies; yet with hands so weak
They can but face a future harsh and bleak,
Waiting the chance to fire the smoking brand.

Slowly the arch-foe rises from the dust
Where once she sprawled, scarce wounded save by shame;
And smiles of a half-triumph light her eyes.
The guns are silent and the eating rust
Gathers about the hard-fought battle name;
But cankerous days grow heavy with long sighs.





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III.

Have we gained peace or but a short respite
For breathing and wound-healing ere the call
Rings to new Armageddons and the fall
Of ocean tears of sorrow in the night?
Look up! The harvests of the world are white,
The grapes in cluster ripen by the wall,
And grim men, mouthing of the each-for-all,
Sharpen a secret dagger with delight.

Yet of the sad years this our souls have gained,
When the chaff blows from off the threshing floor,
Swept by strong airs under a clearer sun
A sense of deeper things that have remained
Past all contamination and a door
Wide open to the truth we dare not shun.

IV.

The whole world flitters like a bird that fears,
Knowing how weak the feathers at its breast
How precious dear the treasure in its nest
And how the one black hawk that turns and veers
High up among the sunlights golden spears
Holds the destruction of all peace and rest
In its curved talons. Dreaming of the best
Earth trembles for the evil sound she hears.

But there is singing in the yellow corn;
And the blue day goes by on dancing feet
Leading a laughing child in either hand.
Perhaps an armistice is signed this morn
With old grey Fate and oer the merey-sea
Of grander years a rainbow bridge is spanned.

David McKee Wright
N.S.W.
The Bulletin, 19
th
November 1925
cf. reference to fascisti: same page editorial.