Classic Poem

Mild is the air of April,
Gentle the sky above,
And the budding and the mating
Call for a song of love;
But the season on my singing
Has lost its olden spell
Because of a shame and sorrow
Men close their eyes to tell.

I see but the tears of women
In the rain of the springtime flood;
I cannot brook the flowers—
They only smell of blood.
Sad is the playground frolic—
Its joy and laughter melt
In the moan of children sobbing
From jungle and from veldt.

O ye in the halls of council,
You may conquer the distant foe,
But still before a higher court
Your needless wars must go.

Too much you ask of silence;
Too fierce the iron heel.
Because one statesman blundered
Must every heart be steel?

O Britain! O Columbia!
Too much of sodden strife.
Back to the banished gospel—
The sacredness of life!
Else shall our ties of language
And law and race and fame
Be naught to the bond that binds us
In one eternal shame.