On the pale borders of evening
The hawthorn breaths are cool.
The frogs pipe in the sedges
About the shadowy pool.

The cows, turned out from the milking, through
The bars go one by one;
And the lusty farm-lad whistles free
For soon his chores are done.

In war-torn lands afar
Red hates flare up and fade.
Temples and towers crumble down
And children cower dismayed.
The streets are loud with shouting,
The peoples bleed and riot;
The blood soaks into the reeking sod,—
Then comes, for a little, quiet.

On scenes like these the moon
Looks down with heedless face.
The sly inexorable years
Their horrors shall efface.
But still shall cows to pasture
Trail leisurely one by one;
And frogs in the pale sedge go on piping
After the set of sun;
And hawthorn breathe on the air;
And farm-lads homeward fare;
And men come gossiping in from fields—
The day's work done.