The New York Times/1918/11/11/With Peace Impending
WITH PEACE IMPENDING.
I hate the Hun! I hate him, not for all
Our valorous dead who, cleansed of littleness,
Like rain have fallen that their world may live.
Nor shall I hate him for the metaled heel
That ground the breasts of Belgium soft with milk:
For all the poppied wheatlands left a waste,
And desolated cities where the cry
Of homeless children greets the dull-mouthed guns,
And rivers red with blood, and Rheims in ruin;
Nor yet for women torn between the claws
Of lust. I hate him, nor for midnight bursts
Of death upon the unguarded tents of pain,
Nor brutish laughter where the lordly ship,
Stricken, goes down, and leaves the lonely sea
More lonely with the last sob of a child,
Incredulous that men strike thus and live.
Nor must my hatred feed on him they took
In battle, black with smoke—him over whom
The maple leaves once sang—and held aloft
And spitted close against their blood-red wall,
Slow-writhing, on the Cross invisible
Whereby we dreamed such things could never be,
A blade of Rhenish steel through each torn hand,
And through the bleeding feet twin blades of steel.
Our valorous dead who, cleansed of littleness,
Like rain have fallen that their world may live.
Nor shall I hate him for the metaled heel
That ground the breasts of Belgium soft with milk:
For all the poppied wheatlands left a waste,
And desolated cities where the cry
Of homeless children greets the dull-mouthed guns,
And rivers red with blood, and Rheims in ruin;
Nor yet for women torn between the claws
Of lust. I hate him, nor for midnight bursts
Of death upon the unguarded tents of pain,
Nor brutish laughter where the lordly ship,
Stricken, goes down, and leaves the lonely sea
More lonely with the last sob of a child,
Incredulous that men strike thus and live.
Nor must my hatred feed on him they took
In battle, black with smoke—him over whom
The maple leaves once sang—and held aloft
And spitted close against their blood-red wall,
Slow-writhing, on the Cross invisible
Whereby we dreamed such things could never be,
A blade of Rhenish steel through each torn hand,
And through the bleeding feet twin blades of steel.
For these I scarce need hate, since the high dead
Are dead and far above our rancor sleep.
Wounds may be left to silence and to time,
And over buried wrong the ivy runs.
Yea, in the years to come these riven lands
Once more shall laugh with poppy and with wheat,
And pure again shall flow the streams of France,
And on the plains of Flanders children play.
Are dead and far above our rancor sleep.
Wounds may be left to silence and to time,
And over buried wrong the ivy runs.
Yea, in the years to come these riven lands
Once more shall laugh with poppy and with wheat,
And pure again shall flow the streams of France,
And on the plains of Flanders children play.
But him, the Hun, I hate, and ever shall,
For thrusting on my soul his gift of hate;
For wresting from my hands life's final flower
Of tenderness, for hurling on my heart
The lust to fight his lust, since as a brute
The brute must still be faced. Yea, back he turned
Our feet—back to the twilight paths of time,
To jungled wraths and fang confronting fang,
And thick-coiled venoms. All against our will
He drags us down to his own hellish depths;
Back to the age of tooth and claw he hurls
All me and mine, and on a startled world
Imposes his black creed. He, e'en in death,
Shall not be worsted, spitting in our teeth
His hates triumphant—leaving in our hand
A blood-stained sword, and wonder in our eyes!
For thrusting on my soul his gift of hate;
For wresting from my hands life's final flower
Of tenderness, for hurling on my heart
The lust to fight his lust, since as a brute
The brute must still be faced. Yea, back he turned
Our feet—back to the twilight paths of time,
To jungled wraths and fang confronting fang,
And thick-coiled venoms. All against our will
He drags us down to his own hellish depths;
Back to the age of tooth and claw he hurls
All me and mine, and on a startled world
Imposes his black creed. He, e'en in death,
Shall not be worsted, spitting in our teeth
His hates triumphant—leaving in our hand
A blood-stained sword, and wonder in our eyes!
ARTHUR STRINGER.