To a Son of Peace

Bland youth, to whom the War is but a story
   Told by the elders round the winter fire,
A tale of ancient fear and tarnished glory
   And quaint heroes of some grey-beared sire,
Are you so safe that you can laugh at battle?
   Are you so sure your world today is sane?
Are you so deaf that, tho' the sabres rattle
   Even today, you count all portents vain?
 
So were we safe, and deemed our generations
   Secure in sanity; so were we sure,
A score of years ago, no war-mad nation
   Could rouse a whole world's anger, and endure.
So were we young, with all youth's scornful laughter.
   Now we are old; not too old to forget
Unheeded beacon fires and and what came after ...
   And still grim Armageddon is not yet.
 
If you have gods, thank them, with thanks o'erflowing,
   First, that your path thus far has known no thorn;
Then pray.  Pray you may never come to knowing
   The bloody baptism that men you scorn
Have known, and lived -- lived on to bear the stricture
   Of beardless youth.  Pray that this world you deem
So sane, so sure, may shape war to your picture --
   The phantasy of some spent grey-beard's dream.