Peter Me Arthur
He put it away from him but it came again.
Then he thought of the headlines in the paper
Words and phrases about meaningless battles,
Strange names of war-swept towns and villages.
He whistled to drive away thought a thin tuneless
sound.
But the war thoughts would come.
At last they touched him with their magic. [verse
His imagination opened till he was at one with the uni- Till he saw more within than in the world about him- Saw the Great War, felt the urgent thought of mankind. And while he rode on the disk harrow, in the autumn
sunshine, [of it,
Though his lips made no sound, he made himself a song And this was the song that he made:
The war, the war, the horrible, horrible war ! My son, my neighbour s son, the minister s son ! The blacksmith s son, the storekeeper s son, the station- master s son !
The member of parliament s son, the millionaire s son ! The widow s son, the son of the day labourer All, all everybody s son Marching to war, marching to wounds and to death !
Ho, War God ! Let me be your oracle ! Come, walk with me here in the fields While I sing you the song of your folly ! Come in what form you will Mars or Thor, Moloch or Satan Come full panoplied in all your terrors I shall not fear you !
You are but a dream. I am a reality, [you.
I am a man, a living soul, of the souls that shall destroy Fool, Infinite Fool, what roused you to this madness? Was it the pride of man, proud of his strength, Proud of his science, proud of his commerce, proud of his wisdom?
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