"They fail to read clearly the signs of the times who do not see that the hour is coming when, under the searching eye of philosophy and the terrible analysis of science, the letter and the outward evidence will not altogether avail us; when the surest dependence must be upon the Light of Christ within…." – John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892), Quaker poet
A conversation with an individual whose privacy I will respect has inspired me to post a poem I wrote about 10 years ago. I was either a senior in high school or a freshman in college. It's not likely to be confused with the works of Robert Service, but I've written worse.
No
No!
No, I will not let you.
I cannot let you.
Please.
Don't make me hate you.
Hate is too bitter.
It hurts to burn with fury,
Boiling in discontent.
I mourn a loss:
The loss of the sweetness of friendship.
Kindness has the cool beauty of the calm sea.
But I fear that when the fires of anger die,
Cool comfort will not remain.
Instead, there'll be a cold to chill the soul
And a silence like death.
Frozen hearts shatter.
And not even the warmth of the sun
Can repair the damage.
No, I will not hate you.
I would sooner die.
Covered by a blanket
And the darkness of the night
I weep from the terror
And the Reaper in my sight
As I attempt to slumber
The thoughts begin to creep
Into my world of logic
Bringing horrors, dark and deep
My body starts tremble
As my heart begins to pound
Soon I lose sensation
And I cannot hear a sound
Comfortably numb is just a dream
Painfully dumb, I hold my screams
It won’t end!
It can’t end!
How can it end?!?
My tortured soul shouts
As fears tear apart my brain
And an evil chill torments me
As I pray to end the pain
“God, are you up there?”
I whisper to the ceiling
Exhaustion takes effect
And I get a warmer feeling
But the misery isn’t over
Though the terror’s gone away
Cause I’ll have to feel the sorrow
And face my fears another day
My only medals are the scars
I’ve won in weary, peacetime wars,
A-fighting for my little brood,
To win them shelter, shoon and food;
But most of all to give them faith
In God’s good mercy unto death.My sons have medals gleaming bright,
Proud trophies won in foreign fight;
But though their crosses bravely shine,
My boys can show no wounds like mine–
Grim gashes dolorously healed,
And inner ailings unrevealed.Life-lasting has my battle been,
My enemy a fierce machine;
And I am marked by many a blow
In conflict with a tireless foe,
Till warped and bent beneath the beat
Of life’s unruth I own defeat.Yet strip me bare and you will see
A worthy warrior I be;
Although no uniform I’ve worn,
By wounds of labour I am torn;
Leave the their ribbands and their stars . . .
Behold! I proudly prize my scars.
The Song Of The Pacifist
by Robert Service
What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt’ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom’s throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall’n in vain.When our children’s children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . that will be Victory.