Classic Poem

The lullably of War is Death — Death the unsmiling One,
Inexorable, inscrutable; who hears not any cry,
But, silently, with a great pity, pitilessly
Folds us in extinction; as a white fog creeps
From the sea; blotting out the valley.
We are not denied immortality by Death,
But by our folly — Death,
The wisest minister of life, sits at the portal
As a vigilant watchman, refusing the unfit.
Nothing that lives may pass beyond its hour, burdening
The Future with a backward load — husks of a dead Past.
Everything miracled with life, even the smallest microbe
Of us all, must return to the exhaustless crucible,
The endless cycle for newer purposes. Yet
The seed, if it be fit — curious package of the Future —
May carry on Life's triumph to the final night
Of our lovely little planetary garden.
Behold how faithfully the wheat has brought us loaves
From the field of Boaz and the tombs of Egypt.
But where is Egypt?
The pines which stand before the mountains
And the kelp which sways its undulant tresses to
The rhythms of the swinging sea have heard the call
And know the way of Life — the way of Death.
But the nations of men die in their folly.
They are extinguished. They do not know
The primal and the ultimate decree of the Great Harmony.
No. Not so much as the little velvet bees,
Unfailing pilots of the uncharted air,
Who trustfully surrender to the arms of the
Relentless Love and build their golden galleries
Upon that harmony with which the great antiphony began:
To build for all — to gather for all;
No privileged monopoly in the nectar pastures
But the wide world free in friendly rivalry.
Justice, the honycomb, filled with
Honey of an everlasting peace —
The gilded drones cast out that so
The hive may live in noble equalness.
O little gauze-winged voyagers in time and space,
Slight emanations from the Primal whole,
How is it, you have felt, as sun and night
Are felt, which way is life and which way death?
The pines which scale the mountains and the kelp
That binds the tide with ribbons have dipped
From out the cosmic pool drops that Man has missed.
Little golden-girdled vestals of the Sun, who, three thousand
Years ago, on Hybla or Hymettus or in the Vale
Of Tempe, coaxed the Spring-tuned ears of
Goatskin-coated shepherds with your thin, fine flutes;
A singing tone brought, faint and far, from earliest
Blossomry of Time; and now make loud
The ball-sage thickets of a California mountainside;
Shaking, as dewy censers, all the purple spikes:
You still will stir the vibrant air and nectar-chalices
With organ-note from airy fleets of Peace,
When Man has vanished utterly and the tired Earth
Sleeps on beauty undefiled. Small, virgin
Wooers of the opened buds — swift golden bullets of
The sunny hours — what lure, what power,
What essence of the ether, brought your so
Frail tribe to yield, as willing brides, to the
Merciless compulsion of the merciful,
Sustaining Love? You launch your air-planes
On ethereal seas, safe in a common
Sisterhood of peace, but Man puts all
His trust in battle — and with battle dies.
Soft little nuns of the waxen-walled community,
Where did you suck your social wisdom?
We fill our hive with honey from the sweat of slaves
And give the golden keys of the large treasure-house
To oily drones whose only strength is cunning
How to steal — betraying trust and robbing workers
Of their birthright in the Earth.
Delicate servers to the waiting flowers whose

Cloisters are thick hung with curtains of sweet smell
And the intoning is of peace, where did you learn
The bold, wise communism which has steered
You from a far horizon to this hour, that now
I hear you gathering pollen in the willow-catkins
By my friendly little rill? Already it moves
Feebly in and out among its stones with such
Faint murmur that I know the overhanging bay
And willow trees cannot rescue it, but in
Hot August will be silence — dust where now it shines.
Yet well I know the boulders it has kissed smooth
Through many pollened Aprils will keep safe
Its memory until Aquarius, the Torrent Pourer, has
Filled Earth's cisterns up and then once more the voice
Of my sweet comrade will caress my ear
And in the catkins your soft strumming will again be heard.
O earnest, tireless, humming little honeybees,
Can I not also suck the nectar of a living peace?
I will go to my mother and lie down on
Her bosom and put my lips to the abundant
Breast. Cosmic wisdom shall seep into me as the sun's
Warmth comforts the deepest roots of the vines.

I went up into my vineyard and lay down
Upon the warm, red earth and smelled the sweet scent
Of the little green flowers that tasseled the vines.
From the top of the vineyard a cock-quail was crowing
And over my head a white cloud was asleep in the sky;
A golden throne for one of the Immortals.
The whole sky was filled with beauty.
I went into the desert where is nothing — nothing,
And from a lava rock I watched a storm
Marching over the desert — thrashing with flails of lightning;
So the Desert trembled and was still.
It was beautiful.
Suddenly, Night opened to me the Universe.
Out of the dark flew a golden swarm
And I covered my eyes that I be not made blind.
I saw the breast plate of the Infinite
And I knew that Beauty is its breathing.
In the sky was a small, faint cloud of light;
A little thing; a grain, a speck, a bit of mist;
The necklace of Andromeda.
Its span — three hundred million billion miles.
A mote in that unbounded and unfettered space
Where we too wander — helpless — on the childish ball
Given us in beauty that we might juggle happiness.
I struck my breast and cried aloud,
" And Man makes War. "
There was laughter in the desert;
Laughter more terrible than thunder;
Laughter that split the sky
Like flails of lightning;
Laughter of the Cosmos for the death of Man.
The sun came up as a great god riding in
A ship of flame across a golden sea.
The herds trooped down to water at the pool;
And then were quiet — praying.
The loving mothers stood, love-patient, while
Their awkward calves nudged the soft udders,
And the massive bulls lifted noble heads, dripping
From the pool. They stared with mild astonished eyes.
They do not know that they are bred for beef.
They and their little ones, bred for slaughter.
Their brains are only a bit of pulp, quickened for procreation.
I came away into the desert of the cities, where
The herd streams from factories, office buildings —
Tall as Babel — from stores — docks — and warehouses.
I looked into their faces and saw on
Their foreheads, the one phylactery bound on
Their baby brows by Church and School, " Obedience. "
Never for them was church or schoolroom window
Lifted by a crack to let the free air in from heights
Where grow the storm-tormented oaks and twisted
Pines, rebels against the tyranny of the wind, compelling
It submissively to carry to the valley the fragrance
Of their combat. The soft wax of childhood,
Poured by Church and School into moulds
Of the Masters — " Obedience to Authority. " They dare
Not guess obedience is the quality of slaves;
Disobedience the attribute of gods.
My heart yearned over them: patient and
Submissive herd, staring without thought
And without courage; taking their morning
Thought from the " Great " or lesser " Daily, "
And so to the job, well satisfied. The hand
That gave the job has given also their thinking
For the day. And the movies teach them
How to kiss and be kissed. Their brains
Only a bit of pulp, quickened for procreation.
They do not know that they are bred for slaughter.
If the Masters need a war — a few lies dropped
Into their brains — vinegar on soda — the hissing
Gas is Hate — perhaps Death-bombs.

I went back into the desert — Peace was there.
Sunset dipped the world in amethyst,
And quiet, in a purple tide, welled slowly up.
The querulous calves, the patient cows,
The massive bulls, psalmed a deep recessional.
They do not know that they are bred for beef.
Men and women who are on this prison-globe
An hour — a moment — the twinkling of an eye
Out of eternity, have you no legacy of life
To leave the children, but only death?
I love children, vases of alabaster, where
Are hid we know not what great spirits;
Magicians — even gods — sealed with the
Great seal, waiting release, and we
May break the seal. I love all children,
White, red, yellow, black — all — all kissed
By the Sun for life and not for slaughter.
Is there no vision in our bones of the generations,
Flocks of birds, lighting to rest awhile after
The long flight, singing the rapture of
A peaceful Earth, where Justice is, until
The final dusk shall fold the Earth and all it holds
In Silence.
O is there one who would not rather choose
A world where is no hate — no war — no man-made misery,
No slums of degradation, but the soul,
Released from crushing poverty and crushing wealth,
Both undeserved, rises to godlike justice,
Noble equality, beauty and the stature of the soul?

Fathers of sons; but even more, mothers of daughters,
Have you who hold the gate today no message
For the ones to come in long procession to
This habitation which the Architect Inscrutable
Fashioned a paradise but Man has made a hell?
There is upon the sky a picture out of Cosmos:
Our globed hive, winged along its happy way
By that which built the universe and shapes
Man's soul — the perfect harmony called Love.
Every generation shall be a new flight to lift
The race to godhood. Fathers of sons,
Mothers of daughters, have you this vision?
Moths fluttering on the summer dusk fly into
The candle, heedless of those who lie beneath,
Their scorched wings quivering in death.
The Rulers lift a flame they call by noble names
Patriotism — Duty — Honor, but it is the fire
Of greed for their own profit. Fathers of sons,
And even more, Mothers of daughters, have
You no warning for the heedless little moths?
None can save a people but only the people themselves.
Because there are moths shall the stars be quenched,
Or the passion of moths for light be changed?
The Great Harmony is not so. It stands
Upon the Verities Eternal — established from
The beginning.
Only the fit shall carry on the torch — the unfit
Shall be cast aside, as a careful gardener
Weeds his garden. Not one law for the person
And another for the Nation but the same law
Universal for the man and the people.
And the fruits of the field and the sea.
An unjust nation shall perish
But a just people shall never pass away.
As there is a fitness of the body, so
There is a fitness of the mind and of the soul,
And the greatest is the fitness of the soul.
The things of the body must die, as the body
Dies, but the things of the Soul are eternal
As the soul is eternal; not my soul
Or yours — we but blossom by the wayside,
But the Soul of Man which has put on
Wings to soar above the jungle to the
Mountain-top and beyond and more
Even to the Swan and the bright lantern of
The Lyre — embracing the whole Universe;
Well knowing itself to be a part of
Infinite Beauty.
The Great Harmony builds on Freedom —
Justice — Equality — and Brotherhood
Fragrancies of the soul
And Love from which all these come.
Love is All in All — the Cosmic Harmony.
By Love alone can the nations be preserved.
But Man builds upon falsities.
He breeds the unfit and cherishes the unfit
Which he creates. He selects the best for slaughter.
He offers the strong to the weak as a sacrifice.
He hates Freedom
Though it is the very life of the soul in which
The soul lives and moves and has its being —
As a fish in the sea — a bird in the sky — a bud
In the sun. It brought Man from the slime
To manhood, yet Man fears his Creator.
Freedom demands a great price and Man will not
Pay it. Not freedom to do as the Rulers will,
Nor as the mob wills, but as I myself will.
In the infinity of my own soul — peacefully,
Respecting the souls of others. The souls
Of the free are a shining constellation.
Man builds upon things of the body — falsities —
Injustice — Inequality — Wealth — Power — Conquest.
Rejecting Brotherhood, he invites Hate.
It is as when the timbers of a house are eaten
By termite ants; outwardly they seem sound
But inwardly they are hollow, and fall with
Their own weight. His reliance is on force — the strength
Of fleets and armies. But the strength beloved
By the Great Harmony, is the strength of the mind,
The strength of the Soul.
Thought is the god in Man. The chiefest attribute
Of gods is thought. But man refuses the great
Tribunal and returns to the Jungle — to tooth
And claw and club — his mind but a
Jack-o-Lantern — flickering over a bog.
But the Great Harmony will not be denied.
It insists on the Verities established from
The Beginning. It insists that the things of body
Shall die and the things of the soul shall live.
It insists that the orbit of a nation through time
Be determined by
Truths or falsities, sure and certain
As the grooves which hold the suns steady
Toward their destiny — changelessly
Conditioned as parabola, ellipse, circle or
Triangle. Given but an arc of a nation's
Course, and its glory or eclipse calculable
As certainly as that of the sun.
But we take no note of the long, lean finger
The Past lifts warningly toward Time's Dial.
Blinder than a mole in his burrow, we do
Not see that Empire is a fire
Running upon a mountain; leaving the pines
To bleach as skeletons against black ruin.
Where is Assur? Where is Tyre? Where is Persia?
Where is Egypt whose whistling lash fell on
The naked backs of captives; building from
Their misery, shadowy, voluptuous halls;
Pillars of porphyry and granite;
Capitals of lotus —
For Pharaoh — Son of the Sun —
For Pharaoh and his white-toothed dancing girls:
Their polished limbs naked;
Tinkling bells of silver
Whispering from their ankles;
Armlets of gold and of emerald;
Plumes of the snowy ibis
Floating on their hair, black and lustrous,
Twisted with pearls.
Dancing to flute and to zither,
To drum and to lute and to timbrel;
Celebrating the shouting return of the armies;
Processions of chariots.
Troops of strong horses.
Banners of victory.
Trumpets of conquest.
Battalions of sun-burned warriors,
Bringing long, dusty lines of slaves,
Tribute and spoil and Hate,
To Pharaoh — Son of the Sun — Lord of the World.
Where are the glittering spears,
The neighing steeds and bright flashing chariots?
Where, the sun-burned warriors
Who themselves were only slaves?
Where, the floating limbs of the dancing girls
Who danced before Pharaoh — Son of the Sun?
Where is Pharaoh?
Where is Egypt?
Her pyramids stand solitary in the
Abode of silence and desolation,
And about them the wind
Sifts the sand of the desert.
Where is Babylon, which held the world in pawn
And lifted high in air her gardens of delight?
How beautiful were the gardens of Babylon,
Seated on high walls, like queens on thrones;
Soothing with music and fountains and sweet
With the smell of camphire and spikenard,
Of orange and lemon flowers, cassia,
And the bitter sweet oleander; which, like
A bold woman, intoxicates with her perfume;
But her kisses are poison.
The gardens of Babylon are dust.
Dust are the Kings and the captains who
In the gardens stroked the smooth arms
Of women and drank strong sweet wine
From goblets of gold, richly carved.
They were drunk, not with wine, but with boasting.
They listened to the songs of the singers,
Telling them they were immortal,
Even as gods are immortal;
That they too were gods — and the sons of gods.
They rested gold-sandaled feet on the neck of the world.
By the rivers of Babylon the captives
Sat down and wept. They hung their harps
In the midst of the willows and could not sing
A song of Zion; for their hearts were heavy;
They were without freedom; their toil belonged
To another. The soldiers who were conquerors
Came out from their huts and lay naked on the plain,
And the sardonic stars cursed them — that they
Did not know that they too were slaves to the Rulers.
In peace or in war the people — slaves to the Rulers.
These returned to their huts and took the new born
And threw them into the river, because
For them there was no food — no, not in the breasts
Of the mothers; no joy except in death.
Where is Babylon and her Empire, built
On the conquest and hate of the world?
Where is Sargon? Where Amasis?
Where is Xerxes? Where the great Alexander,
Who set up the emblems of Empire on the banks
Of the Ganges? And more and most of all
Where is the many triumphed Julius
Who drove the gilded drones from the hive
And with swords, as we do now, built
On the backs of slaves another empire
For other privileged ones? The bronze eagle of
The Seven Hills held the world in her talons
And sent legions, as boastful as our own,
To the subjugation of the Earth, over roads
Built on the groans of slaves. The torch has burned
To the socket, leaving no spark but the parchments
Of her philosophers and the scrolls of her poets.
These are of the soul, immortal.
The towers of Empire fall of their own weight;
Their glory fades as the piled gold of the acacia
Rusts in a February frost.
There is no vanity so vain as Might:
A rainbow, vanishing in its own thunder.
Not might, but Harmony is the sure compulsion
Of the whole cosmos, and it stands on the
Starry minaret of Eternity calling to the Ages.
" Love one another. "
" Do unto others as you would that they
" Should do unto you. "
But we also have not heard that voice
And the sardonic stars will chant
Over our orgies of Empire,
" You have obeyed the Masters and followed
" The Captains, you have taken bread from the mouths
" Of children and laid great burdens on the backs
" Of slaves. All wars are for greed of the Masters.
" You have danced to lute and to zither.
" You have chosen the body and denied the soul.
" You have drained golden goblets
" Of strong sweet wine
" And snored in the Cup of Oppression,
" Now you shall taste oblivion. "

The lullaby of War is Death.
O mad, sad lullaby, never to end
Until there is no tongue to speak, no ear
To hear, unless, humbly as a devotee
Within the temple, Man yields
To the mighty hand which flung
The Earth to fly as a bird
And holds the bees in keeping.
Because he has stood erect a little while
Man thinks he is a god, greater than
The Great Unknown which fashioned him
Out of the insignificance of a single cell.
Vain as a fretful child who scatters
The toys with which he is displeased, Man seeks
To push aside the conditions of creation.
When a husbandman would win the Desert,
Bride of the jealous Sun, to lie with him
On beds of flowers in pleasant shade,
He does not defy the Primal Power that tosses
The rivers into Ocean's arms;
But with humility he fits his water wheel
To the might of the mountains and carefully
Adjusts his fragile toy to the flow of the torrent.
Or if a man would throw his cobweb over
A dizzy chasm, does he not calculate
Each stay and truss and buttress to meet
The same implacable command by which
His sister engineer, the spider, swings
Her filmy net across a windy aisle of the forest?
Spider and man alike submit to the Great Power
Which floats our little pleasure ball along
Its frolic way. But not in all man's history
Have the Rulers studied once the line
Of a nation's immortality fixed by the Great Plan,
Relentless and unchangeable as the Power
That hurls the rivers or our little whirling home.
Thought, not Force. Love, not Hate.
Justice, not Greed. Equality, not Privilege.
Stronger than arms or armored fleets
Or navies of the air which hold the cities
In their claws, as a hawk a sparrow;
Stronger than all destruction Christianity
Can rain on Christianity; scarring the abundant breast
That would so lovingly nurse her children, is
That Heavenly One — the Soul of Man,
Which flies above this shadowy world
As a wild swan that through the night
Has flown above a darkened Earth
Until at daw, high in the coming blue,
His gleaming breast catches the sunrise.