Poems of Optimism Part 1

Poems of Optimism.

by Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x.

GREATER BRITAIN

Our hearts were not set on fighting, We did not pant for the fray, And whatever wrongs need righting, We would not have met that way.

But the way that has opened before us Leads on thro' a blood-red field; And we swear by the great G.o.d o'er us, We will die, but we will not yield.

The battle is not of our making, And war was never our plan; Yet, all that is sweet forsaking, We march to it, man by man.

It is either to smite, or be smitten, There's no other choice to-day; And we live, as befits the Briton, Or we die, as the Briton may.

We were not fashioned for cages, Or to feed from a keeper's hand; Our strength which has grown thro' ages Is the strength of a slave-free land.

We cannot kneel down to a master, To our G.o.d alone can we pray; And we stand in this world disaster, To fight, like a lion at bay.

BELGIUM

Ruined? destroyed? Ah, no; though blood in rivers ran Down all her ancient streets; though treasures manifold Love-wrought, Time-mellowed, and beyond the price of gold Are lost, yet Belgium's star shines still in G.o.d's vast plan.

Rarely have Kings been great, since kingdoms first began; Rarely have great kings been great men, when all was told.

But, by the lighted torch in mailed hands, behold, Immortal Belgium's immortal king, and Man.

KNITTING

At the concert and the play Everywhere you see them sitting, Knitting, knitting.

Women who the other day Thought of nothing but their frocks Or their jewels or their locks, Women who have lived for pleasure, Who have known no work but leisure, Now are knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.

On the trains and on the ships With a diligence befitting, They are knitting.

Some with smiles upon their lips, Some with manners debonair, Some with earnest look and air.

But each heart in its own fashion, Weaves in pity and compa.s.sion In their knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.

Hurried women to and fro From their homes to labour flitting, Knitting, knitting, Busy handed come and go.

Broken bits of time they spare, Just to feel they do their share, Just to keep life's sense of beauty In the doing of a duty, They are knitting, knitting, knitting For the soldiers over there.

MOBILISATION

Oh the Kings of earth have mobilised their men.

See them moving, valour proving, To the fields of glory going, Banners flowing, bugles blowing, Every one a mother's son, Brave with uniform and gun, Keeping step with easy swing, Yes, with easy step and light marching onward to the fight, Just to please the warlike fancy of a King; Who has mobilised his army for the strife.

Oh the King of Death has mobilised his men.

See the hea.r.s.es huge and black How they rumble down the track; With their coffins filled with dead, Filled with men who fought and bled; Now from fields of glory coming To the sound of m.u.f.fled drumming They are lying still and white, But the Kings have had their fight; Death has mobilised his army for the grave.

NEUTRAL

That pale word 'Neutral' sits becomingly On lips of weaklings. But the men whose brains Find fuel in their blood, the men whose minds Hold sympathetic converse with their hearts, Such men are never neutral. That word stands Uns.e.xed and impotent in Realms of Speech.

When mighty problems face a startled world No virile man is neutral. Right or wrong His thoughts go forth, a.s.sertive, unafraid To stand by his convictions, and to do Their part in shaping issues to an end.

Silence may guard the door of useless words, At dictate of Discretion; but to stand Without opinions in a world which needs Constructive thinking, is a coward's part.

A BOOK FOR THE KING

A book has been made for the King, A book of beauty and art; To the good king's eyes A smile shall rise Hiding the ache in his heart - Hiding the hurt and the grief As he turns it, leaf by leaf.

A book has been made for the King, A book of blood and of blight; To the Great King's eyes A look shall rise That will blast and wither and smite - Yes, smite with a just G.o.d's rage, As He turns it, page by page.

THE MEN-MADE G.o.dS

Said the Kaiser's G.o.d to the G.o.d of the Czar: 'Hark, hark, how my people pray.

Their faith, methinks, is greater by far Than all the faiths of the others are; They know I will help them slay.'

Said the G.o.d of the Czar: 'My people call In a medley of tongues; they know I will lend my strength to them one and all.

Wherever they fight their foes shall fall Like gra.s.s where the mowers go.'

Then the G.o.d of the Gauls spoke out of a cloud To the G.o.d of the King nearby: 'Our people pray, tho' they pray not loud; They ask for courage to slaughter a crowd, And to laugh, tho' themselves may die.'

And far out into the heart of s.p.a.ce Where a lonely pathway crept, Up over the stars, to a secret place, Where no light shone but the light of His face, Christ covered His eyes and wept.

THE GHOSTS

There was no wind, and yet the air Seemed suddenly astir; There were no forms, and yet all s.p.a.ce Seemed thronged with growing hosts.

They came from Where, and from Nowhere, Like phantoms as they were; They came from many a land and place - The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.