IT whizzed and whistled along the blurred And red-blent ranks; and it nicked the star Of an epaulette, as it snarled the word -- War! On it sped -- and the lifted wrist Of the ensign-bearer stung, and straight Dropped at his side as the word was hissed -- Hate! On went the missile -- smoothed the blue Of a jaunty cap and the curls thereof, Cooing, soft as a dove might do -- Love! Sang! -- sang on! -- sang hate -- sang war -- Sang love, in sooth, till it needs must cease, Hushed in the heart it was questing for. -- Peace! |