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328 When we have bled at every pore,

Shall we still strive for gear and store?

Will it be Heaven, will it be Hell,

When there is Peace?

This let us pray—for this implore—

That, all base dreams thrust out at door,

We may in nobler aims excel,

And, like men waking from a spell,

Grow stronger, worthier than before,

When there is Peace!

FROM NOCTURNE IN A LIBRARY

BY ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE

(Harvard Phi Beta Kappa Poem)

all our troubled errantries are done,

And faiths and lures alike have lost their sway,

And but the subtle body, rotting alone,

Is left to prove the daring of our day;

And if we won, head-high, or if we lost

Is now no matter anywhere; and unswerved

The seasons roll, indifferent to the cost

Of pageantries we ruled or faiths we served—

Then of the passion whose attainment was

So serious business while we lived and sought,

Perhaps some faint and ghostly flush shall pass