Ironic Counterpoint

This morn I sat and read beside the wireless
Cabled reports of cities overthrown.
Scarce heeded, faintly heard, but ever tireless
The music made a pulsing overtone
To tales of dread unease and quick suspicion,
Unquiet tales the printed pages bore
Of treaties scorned and national ambition
Burgenoning into blood-red flowers of war.

I read of swift reprisal, sudden slaughter,
The Brute triumphant, reason overborne,
Of lurking death by air and underwater
And hate that put all human hope to scorn.
I read all this, that has become a story
Daily retold since happier days have gone,
With all man’s dreams of earth’s far-visioned glory . . .
And, unregarded still, the song went on.

I knew not what was sung; but, vaguely haunting,
I sensed the echo of an old refrain.
My mind was with the tale of fierce Might flaunting
The badge of terror for one nation’s gain.
Hate, hate and ever hate; death for the meek;
Mass-murder on a stricken city hurled . . .
Then suddenly the song cried from the speaker:
“’Tis Love, and Love alone, that Rules the World.”