FullReads

Ah but, Beloved, men may do
All things to music;–march, and die;
And wear the longest vigil through,
… And say good-by.
All things to music!–Ah, but where
Peace never falls upon the air;–
These city-ways of dark and din
Where greed has shut and barred them in!
And thundering, swart against the sky,
That whirlwind,–never to go by–
Of tracks and wheels, that overhead
Beat back the senses with their roar
And menace of undying war,–
War–war–for daily bread!

All things to silence! Ah, but where
Men dwell not, but must make a lair;–
And Sorrow may not sit alone,
Nor Love hear music of its own;
And Thought that strives to breast that sea
Must struggle even for memory.
Day-long, night-long,–besieging din
To thrust all pain the deeper in!–
And drown the flutter of first-breath;
And batter at the doors of Death.
To lull their dearest:–watch their dead;
While the long thunders overhead,
Gather and break for evermore,
Eternal tides–eternal War,
War–war–Bread–bread!