Page:Poet Lore, volume 27, 1916.djvu/388

 thousand and one dreams woven by the spinners of fiction born out of a mind which knows no evil and a heart that is overflowing with love of one’s neighbor. Today the lyres are mute, the jester’s bells ring out of tune and the shriek of a bullet roars with derision at a mother’s lullaby. To the few to whom it was not given to conceive hate in order to justify murder, who insist on withholding judgment, this is a soul-trying epoch indeed. It seems at times futile to build, to weave, and create what in a moment of fury, an insensible mob will destroy. But the passion for the betterment of the world is a part of our existence and on board of a torpedoed ship, we dream and plan the great dream world to-be and the equality, love and citizenship of all who shall inhabit it.

''A country church-yard. In its depth is a weed covered wall, about a man’s height. It winds to the right toward the spectator then there is a gate. From the gate a short path in the grass to the door of a little church which is on the left of the scene. The graves are ill-kept but covered with wild blossoming flowers. Near this wall bushes of gooseberry and wild currant are nestling. It is spring-time, June. Before the curtain rises, shots are heard. There is noise, alarm and confusion.''

''The curtain rises. There was a light shower in the early part of the afternoon, the grass is wet. Near the gate the body of a dead soldier lies huddled. To the right the sky is red with the glow of the''