Classic Poem

The wild war over, England takes her rest
Sick of mad bloodshed, sick too of display
Of sunlit flags that preach from day to day
Imperial lessons—aye, but not those best
Mandates of Empire that from crest to crest
Of Wordsworth's mountains thundered to the spray
Of wayes that wash round headland, beach and bay,
Of England, by her Freedom crowned and blest.

Yet what is this that rises like a wraith
Standing between us and the gold-robed form
Of Peace, with eyes that darken into storm
And hands made red with horror of grim death?
Peace? “Never Peace, never,” so Ireland saith,
“Till wrong is slain by England's own right arm.”