Vessels that dream at anchor in a bay, While storm-crests rock the riders of the deep, May never see, amid their tide-lapped sleep, The shouldering hulls that dip through squall and spray. So we who read that, half a world away, Gun-turrets smoke, and flaming dragons sweep Through thunderous skies, and bomb-tossed bodies leap And moan and fall, can scarcely know the fray, Except as in some ancient, drowsy tale, But hear and sigh, then turn to toil or shop, To bicker, sell or buy, to reap a crop Or build a house, though even now the gale, With tower-shattering rage none try to stop, Ghoulishly whistles toward our own calm vale. |