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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CONFLICT BEFORE VICTORY, by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON Poet's Biography First Line: I stand at gaze upon an autumn knoll Last Line: The mellow magic of october's moon. Subject(s): Earth; Evil; God; Love; Mankind; Victory; War; World; Human Race | |||
I STAND at gaze upon an autumn knoll, Whose interwoven harmonies of green And gold and russet red make music deep, Somber, yet beautiful, and full of thought; No tripping melody of spring, but rich, Grave tones orchestral played by dreamful gods Upon the season's resonant instruments Of earth and air. A mood of melody Broods all along the hills and o'er the fields And down the river reaches; and where now The forests steal the sunset pageantries A universal harvesting is spread, With augury of winter's stored-up fruit. October's oracle sounds in mine ear: "My name is peace and plenty. Look afar, And list, and take the lesson to your heart." And I, obeying, let my vision roam Beyond this scene of goodly garnering, Over the lands, across the sundering seas, And up and down the hell-tracks dug by hate And horror; see the carrion pools of slain, The anguished wriggle of the dying; hear The shrieks, the oaths, the ravings; mark how sure The beast in man, unleashed, springs up to kill. And circling far beyond this central pit Of frenzy and of lust there comes a moan Vast, vague and terrible, filling the air, From violated shrines of hearth and home Where women wait and stretch out asking arms -- Mothers whose wails once brought those bodies forth, Who prayed above their little, breathing ones, So frail, so tender, come to such as this, The mothers whose gray doom for birth and death It is to suffer and to lose the loved. But, soaring up above all other cries Of battle, in my dazed ear there throbs Deep-mouthed, reiterant, a sullen word, The boom and boom of cannon, detonant, That is war's antichrist and deadliest cry: No, No, it seems to say, again the No, With intervals of silence sent to mock All hope of ceasing. Now it stabs the air, For ever No and No, a muttering Of devils kenneled in their smoke and smell. The drab horizon pulses with that pain; The great denial of man's will to turn Away from hate to labor and to love; The hideous negation of the guns. . . . As if released from out a torturing trance In some black night, lo, I awake to see The fair, full sunlight flood about my feet, October slumbers, smiles, and richly dreams Her dream of wisdom, while sky amethysts And opals blend to make the vault above A miracle, the soul's own halcyon hour Of reverie, a time to guess God's plan For earth, and glimpse the meaning of the years. "Surely," I said, the while the vision fades Of hate and horror, and the autumn fields Glow more benignant to mine eased eyes -- "Surely, Earth fought her way to scenes of tilth And bounty and the fulness of the ear? The spring's sharp labor pains bring in the ripe Fruition and the reaping of the sown? Surely, the grim long struggle up from dust To meet divinity means only this: Warfare eternal, strong subduing weak, And weak a sacrifice unto the strong. Might has been right from sod to throne of God?" No answer from October; distantly The sullen No still sounds. The air is cleft With red reverberations masked in reek That gives the lie to every dream of peace And laughs at love. Again I face the month So mellow in her fruitage. "Say to me, Oh, glamour of the hills, is it not so? Shall not the Right be precious down the years That linger at Time's portal? Shall not we In after-days still strive to make it reign, Opposing wrong with arms, our father's way, And sanctified by blood their fathers shed? For naught is precious but the Right; it shines And shall for ever shine, God's luminous gem; And man must always band himself against The leaguered hordes of devildom. Of old So stormed the angels epically, and drove Dark Lucifer from out their boundaries, And so saved heaven, and made him Lord of Hell." A silence; then, behold, a wonder-thing! For sudden looms against the purple leagues Of harvest hill and mountain magicry A figure, white-robed, eloquent of face, With gracious majesty of mien, whose eyes Seem all ayearn and sad beyond compare, And in a voice more sweet than any bird's That haunts the summer, spoke: "Oh, foolish ones The shows of earth bedazzle, who so blind As they who will not see? The law of life Begins in age-long struggle -- woe the years Innumerous, the never-noted tears -- Before there blossoms from the slime of hate And immemorial shocks of enmity (Blind, blind the impulse, and the mystery strange) A small, white flower that grows and waxes great Until, where once red passion-growths were rife And yellow flauntings of earth's sin, uprears A stately lily, like a light from god, To lead life onward, upward to the Good That knows no law but this: Love lifted up Aloft, and to be seen of all the lands; The law of lust become the law of love By high, supernal fiat; and the law Of killing, that which shames the victor's way, Become that law diviner named good-will, Of which the soul is peace." The tones thrilled through The throb of autumn, but the Presence melted Into the purple mists that crowned the hills As with a coronal of grapes. I cried, Left lonely, and my doubts in-rushing swift: "I can not see it!" All my soul was in That cry of agony. "I can not see How man shall ever cease from troubling man. Wrath, lust of power, and pride, and love of gain (Words, words, that only stand for selfhood), these Will sway him, and his weapons be unsheathed To challenge all who seek to stem his will. Grant that he love: his foe who comes with hate Must in that mood be met and beaten down Into the better mood which in the end Rounds into amity and soothfast hands. Ah, how can endless eons alter this?" So said I, and my soul yearned through the words. Again the flute-like voice (how strange a flute Can pierce the orchestra's assembled cries As if it were alone -- that gentle voice!) Enriched the air; the messenger returned: "Faith is the evidence of things not seen, And Love, beloved, ye of little faith, The greatest is of these: great to endure, To conquer, and to bring the benison Of perfect concord. Then earth's coarse huzzas Shall in the twinkling of an eye resolve Into divine hosannas, and the lamb Couch with the lion. This, the dream, can be If only mortals, rousing from their swoon, Love-wonder in their eyes, dare stoutly believe Such strength is from on high; no battlements, Or engines of destruction of defense, But they shall crumble at one pleading strain Piped by the Shepherd whose poor sheep ye are, This long time gone astray." Silence. And still The golden pulse of Indian-summer-time, Grape-purpled, winy-breathed, and drowsed in dream, Throbbed sentiently along the vistas veiled To where, unseen, incredible, yet true, A world-war ravaged men. My restless mind, Awed by the semblance of this Shape divine, Lulled by such silver speech, must question on. "Is it not true," I said (the Shape seemed gone, And once again I stood and gazed alone On flushed October in that memoried mood When Nature meets the spirit like a friend For balm of kindly counsel) -- "surely, Life, The highest, holiest, must be wrestled for, Ever the wished-for goal be won by pain, The step ahead be taken inch by inch In the brow's sweat; and how be won at all, Unless in conquering, the conqueror Stands on the slain? And shall not man wax weak, And in a supine ease grow fat, unthewed, If ne'er in crush of conflict he be roused To martial doing and to deeds that blazon The record brave? To lay down arms is well, To take them up is well, when clear the call To master evil, save our faith, or be A friend in day of peril to a friend. To fight is but to live; perpetual peace Spells death." Then through the autumn mists again The form, the figure white, reshapes, the voice, A strain of music, moves the vibrant air: "Yea, man with man, shut in by years and spheres, Must struggle; life, so long as earthlings are, Issue in conflict that is sent to bring Out of the atom-dance a wondrous pact, Ancient antagonists made meek at last Through ever-surer seeing. So will come The mist-hid summers of that fuller day To be, if only ye have faith. The fight Is but begun. No more ensanguined fields And hecatombs of dead and stricken homes; No more the sequent lack of bread, the maimed And miserable leavings of the strife, Nor shifted barriers to bicker o'er, Sure cause for further parley: nay, instead, No man shall seek to rend his fellow-man, But each shall kill the evils in himself, Combat undying, asking all his strength And courage, never o'er till heaven and earth Are as one home for all the tribes of men Beneath the roof-tree of the universe, Where gipsy-like they wander now. For aye The fight to make insensate Nature yours; Harness the elements, uncover caverns That hide the precious stones, make clouds and winds The subject of your pleasure, and enchain The mountains, and bring verdure to the deserts, Making them smile. And starry souls shall strive, Forgetting cold and hunger and despair, To reach the far earth-ends and leave a flag On perilous peaks, and outposts ne'er attained By earlier emprise. This battle-front Shall never waver, nor one drop of blood Shall soil its footsteps; all its paths are peace. For ever also shall the fight be fought To bring good tidings unto heathen hearts, Heal wounds, and comfort them in darkness. God, Great Captain of these hosts, His soldiery calls To such endeavor; nor may any wight Escape from shame if he be written down Deserter. Ever does the roll-call sound In mighty cities, too, that harbor sin, And so shall harbor till we take the van, Fighters with God, to make the crooked straight, Pour sunlight's cleansing into darkling dens And sodden shambles, and in triumph set, Where once was only brawl and devious deed, And each man's hand was raised against his brother, The undefeated flags of fellowship! Yea, these good contests ne'er shall pass from earth; They are the goads to prick earth toward heaven, Whose very saints contend to please the King In loving service. Heaven shows earth the way." The voice, in ceasing, was like muted song. But yet again I spoke the earthly view: "How often man becomes more beautiful By sacrifice, through hero deeds and love Of kin and country; spirits valorous, How they do hearten us and gleam, and sing The steps of laggards into marching time! A man, a people, find their better selves Only when called to conquer." Answer came: "There is in evil things a strain of good, And e'en war's murders sometimes sow a seed To feed a soul anhungered; and the crop Is not all wasted on the blood-bought fields. But hero deeds and dauntless deaths, and strength That consecrates an action to a cause, May find full use, may blossom and grow fair Without one blow against a brother; keep The fighting fervor, let the blood-rage die; Transform brute violence, that tears the flesh, Into an heavenly anger, ardor of A soul whose enemy is evil done. Not men the foe, but all that ugly is In men; and hence how foolish-fond the will To kill the body, let the spirit live, And grow to greater power because we mar And maim and straight destroy the spirit's shell, Piling up blows; whereas each act of grace, -- The cup of water held to alien lips, The blow forborne, the trickery forgiven, The kindness in the stead of cruelty, -- Flies up the blue, clear of the carnage smoke, To join the others that go sailing there Like airships manned of angels. For One said: 'And if ye do it to the least of these, Ye do it unto me.' Treasure the words." Deep meanings flowed along the river of This discourse, as a flower might float upon The buoyant current of some spring-urged stream; Yet still my reason answered: "Men are men So long as time is time, and we must meet The fashion of this world as those who dwell Within the world. In other stars, who knows? This earth-star teaches us to walk our ways In earth's sad wisdom." Once again the voice: "Yea, men are men, and men are beasts, and men Are angels in the making; dimly glimpsed In Marcus, him the golden emperor With words like honey dropping; or in him, A Kempis, soul abrood; or Plato, who Dreamt him a state for which men yearn to-day; And, plainlier seen, and lovelier to our hope, In Christ, who said, 'They know not what they do!'" For the last time my brain-born question rose: "How may we in this present state perform These high behests and counsels? For, alack! Stern is the call, and instant is the stress, And Love now lies a-bleeding." As the voice Floated in flute-like cadence, lo! it seemed Diminished, dimmer heard: "Ye believe in love; Ask any pair of lovers. Ye are bound In ties of blood where household gods protect The homes whose name is legion; and full oft The bond of native land makes fealty Not less than claims of kin; it sometimes haps The hostile folk across hate's barriers Suddenly smile, strike hands, and are at one, Though momently. Oh, will ye see at last? The magic of this love from out the sky Shall blend all lesser loves -- the ties of kin And country, and of lands which side by side Seek the same freedom, worship the same shrines; Till, rounding out its destiny, it find But brother man wherever mortal breathes, Made one by loving-kindness, blind no more; The children of that love that spins the stars In harmony down august lanes of air. Such changes are in Nature, so in men, E'en as the pomp and pageant of the fall Gives way to winter, winter ushers in The April raptures of the crescent year. How can that dead womb blossom forth with life?" And as the voice became a silence, where The Shape had passed, a breath of fragrancy Stirred in the trees and hovered o'er the grain. * * * * * * * * * Then hail, oh power beyond our pitiful Earth-ken! Most potent of the gifts of God, The love that is the heart of every song, And opes the lily to release her scent; This love that works through life, and bids the stars Quiver, yet keep their orbits; the same love That makes men die for men; this holy thing, This love, must be the future's battle-cry In some far land, in some unguessed-of place. Oh, country dim but dear, truer than Time Or any present seeming, recompense For seeing darkly and for waiting long! Oh, hoped-for land, bring in that day desired And give us patience in this night of pain. * * * * * * * * * And if it be His will, be ours that land! Saved by the sea from greed, with room for men Of gentleness to grow in, and with hope Of comrade joy to help our one great Chance! Grant us to nurse the vision far and fair: New dream of battle, bloodless, beautiful. No lazy paradise of sinews slacked, But a confederated brotherhood Of work and worship, and of sun-topped heights Because Life thrills with purpose, even death (That old dark name we give the spirit's leap Beyond the dark) turns radiant, rosy-lipped, The while we brace us to go forward. Hark! The morning trumpets cleave the clearing mists. Not drum taps, but reveille is our mood, The conquering mood that leaves the ultimate To Him, the Great Commander; and we march As soldiers in the ranks, soul-satisfied But to obey, and trust beyond the guns Are robin songs and rainbow promises; Deep graven on each heart this word of fire: "Love conquers all. Press on. God asks our aid." . . . Day glimmers, wanes; more duskly broods the hour; Now steals the twilight up the heaven; no sound Of guns across the seas. But murmurously Rises athwart the gloaming witcheries The intersong of night. A vast content Is on the land, and, look, above the line Of warder hills a new-born splendor shines, To turn the dun warm gold, -- low-hung and large, The mellow magic of October's moon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW MUCH EARTH by PHILIP LEVINE THE SHEEP IN THE RUINS by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH THE CONQUERORS by PHYLLIS MCGINLEY THE MARMOZET by HILAIRE BELLOC MEN, WOMEN, AND EARTH by ROBERT BLY BROTHERS: 3. AS FOR MYSELF by LUCILLE CLIFTON BLACK SHEEP by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |
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