Gwendolen Haste, 'Language Of Pain'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Language Of Pain

This is our ancestral war, twisted
Clear and rosy through our web of living,
Dear to the nerves,
Savory with the lore
Of granduncles, parades.

Saplings set the morning Lincoln died
Retain that sanctity and pride to the
Last orchard branch.
The birthday of the old
Is bright with Gettysburg.
Today gigantic strides us weak.

Its mechanic roar is not the tongue
By which we speak
Of fratricide, disorder
And the fame of war.

So the translated agony of dream
Visits one in proud rooms where the sleeper yearns,
Parting dark folds,
To watch the hesitant poplar
Trembling like youth bereaved;

While a tune commonplace with years
Once more calls tears to one who loves in shadow
The bearded bluecoat,
Tenting and sad for peace,
Within a graceless world.

by Gwendolen Haste