Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/155

 Rh THE FOOL RINGS HIS BELLS

OME, Death, I'd have a word with thee;

And thou, poor Innocency;

And Love—a lad with broken wing;

And Pity, too:

The Fool shall sing to you,

As Fools will sing.

Ay, music hath small sense,

And a tune's soon told,

And Earth is old,

And my poor wits are dense;

Yet have I secrets,—dark, my dear,

To breathe you all. Come near.

And lest some hideous listener tells,

I'll ring my bells.

They're all at war!

Yes, yes, their bodies go

'Neath burning sun and icy star

To chaunted songs of woe,

Dragging cold cannon through a mud

Of rain and blood;

The new moon glinting hard on eyes

Wide with insanities!

Hush! . . . I use words

I hardly know the meaning of;

And the mute birds

Are glancing at Love!

From out their shade of leaf and flower,

Trembling at treacheries

Which even in noonday cower.

Heed, heed not what I said

Of frenzied hosts of men,

More fools than I,

On envy, hatred fed,

Who kill, and die—

Spake I not plainly, then?

Yet Pity whispered, "Why?"