The Peace Peal

Said a wistful daw in Saint Peter’s tower,
High above Casterbridge slates and tiles,
Why do the walls of my Gothic bower
Shiver, and shrill out sounds for miles?
This gray old rubble
Has scorned such din
Since I knew trouble
And joy herein.
How still did abide them
These bells now swung,
While our nest beside them
Securely clung!...
It means some snare
For our feet or wings;
But I’ll be ware
Of such baleful things!”
And forth he flew from his louvred niche
To take up life in a damp dark ditch. —
So mortal motives are misread,
And false designs attributed,
In upper spheres of straws and sticks,
Or lower, of pens and politics.

At the end of the War.