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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE RETURN OF AUGUST by PERCY MACKAYE

First Line: DARKLY A MORTAL AGE HAS COME AND GONE
Last Line: THE SUMMER WANES: THE PLOUGHMAN COMES WITH SPRING.
Subject(s): DEATH; WORLD WAR I; DEAD, THE; FIRST WORLD WAR;
Darkly a mortal age has come and gone
And man grown ancient in a single year.
August! The summer month is blasted sere
With memories earth bleeds to dream upon.

To dream upon! Ah, were we dreaming then
Ere Europe, blindfold, lulled in holiday,
Harkened the sudden thunder through her play
And fumbling held her breath to hark again,

Or is this blighted year our dream? -- How swift
The blackening tempest fell! How vast, through fire
And cloud of Belgium's rape, a planet's ire
Flared on that pall of shame, while through the rift

The livid sorrows racked our sympathies!
For still thought burned unclouded: Right and wrong
Strove for the palm as in an epic song;
And so we poured our succor overseas,

Neutral in act but never in our souls,
Yet guarding the brave goal of peace. Till soon --
Slow-warping to the waning year's blind moon --
The tide ebbed back, and in the freezing shoals

We stared upon the dead -- the dead, whose mothers
Suckled them still in dreams. Stark mid the stench
And yellow choke that reeked from shell and trench
They lay together there -- mere boys, and brothers.

Were @3these@1 the epic hosts of Wrong and Right
Whose clash had whirled us in their spirits' war?
These silent boys! What had they battled for
To lie such still bedfellows in the night?

Must breath of dying brothers wake the brass
That thrills the call to arms? Shall ghostly lips
Summon the living to the dark eclipse
And all their dearest shout to see them pass

Merely for this: That these who might have shared
A simple handclasp share a bloodied sod? --
So for a while we gazed and questioned God:
A haunted while: for dimly as we stared

Far off we heard the multitudinous cry
Of mangled Poland like a cry in sleep,
And, Serbia fever-panting, and the deep
Half-breathed self-doubt of prisoned Germany,

And still far tidings blew, but that first spark
Of August splendor burned in them no more;
Pity and sorrow palled, and custom wore
A deeper callus and a blur more dark,

Till sudden -- the @3Lusitania!@1 Lightnings shot
The unhallowed message, and a shuddering fire
Leapt from our long-charred hearts -- a glowing spire,
And Europe's sword swung nearer to the knot

That ties the bonds of peace. And now -- And now
The summer steals again toward winter's sleep.
The reaping time draws near -- ah, @3what@1 to reap?
And spring, that lurks beyond, comes hither -- how?

. . . . . . . .

Still, O my Country, while we may, look back!
The blighted year cries from the charnel grass:
@3Must breath of dying brothers wake the brass
That thrills the call to arms?@1 -- A blood-sered track

Leads backward to that other August day
Prowled by the still unglutted Minotaur;
But we, who watch to slay that beast of War,
Shall we hunt @3him@1 or those he mangles? -- Say:

For reason has its ire more just than hate;
Imagination has its master hour,
And pity its foil, and mother-love its power
Mightier than blood-lust and more obdurate.

My Country! poised in forward visioning,
With pity, love and reason let us pray
Our lives shall serve to cleanse this August day! --
. . . . . . . .

The summer wanes: the ploughman comes with spring.



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