A Listening Post

The sun's a red ball in the oak
And all the grass is grey with dew,
Awhile ago a blackbird spoke —
He didn't know the world's askew.

And yonder rifleman and I
Wait here behind the misty trees
To shoot the first man that goes by.
Our rifles ready on our knees.

How could he know that if we fail
The world may lie in chains for years
And England be a bygone tale
And right be wrong, and laughter tears?

Strange that this bird sits there and sings
While we must only sit and plan —
Who are so much the higher things —
The murder of our fellow man. . . .

But maybe God will cause to be —
Who brought forth sweetness from the strong—
Out of our discords harmony
Sweeter than that bird's song.