Page:Canadian poems of the great war.djvu/146

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��Peter Me Arthur

No King shall walk in armour,

No steel be shaped to slay. For though we serve the war god

It shall not be his gain; Our beaten swords as plowshares

Shall evermore remain.

So mighty smith, be merry,

And make your anvil ring! The marvel you are shaping

All after years shall sing. He knows you as his doomsman

And trembles in his car, While you beat our swords to plowshares

For the stricken god of war.

A CHANT OF WAR

OHN SMITH, the farmer, riding on his disk harrow, Disking his bean ground for wheat, was busy, yet idle. Jolting over the field he watched the blades cutting the

soil [under

Smelled the damp earth, watched the weeds being worked He clicked to his horses and slapped them with the lines

to keep them moving. He heard the crickets chirping in the dry grass on the

headlands.

He heard the hens cackling at the barn. He saw the spider webs sparkling in the sunshine. There were flocks of cow-birds around the cattle in the

pasture.

A neighbour was cutting seed clover with a clacking

mower ; [warns ;

Another was cutting corn making shocks like wig-

And over all was the warm September sunshine. [sky.

Even the sun seemed near and neighbourly in the hazy

And because there was nothing to think about there came

a thought of the war.

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