The trees wear green;

Upon the down in dimpled fold

The white lambs glean;

Deep blue the skyey canopy,

Soft the wind's fan:

Behold the earth as it might be

If man lov'd man!

Summer is soon; the next new moon

Will see the yellowing wheat;

Then will be harvest, Earth's high boon

To them that work for it.

The reapers swink, the heat-waves blink

Across the drowsy fen—

Now let hearts shrink from scythes that drink

The blood of young men!

 ii 

ii

As I stood at my open door

I caught a flying word:

Two strangers past, "Then that means war——"

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