Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, 1917 - THE WAR CLASS, by GEROID TANQUARY ROBINSON


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

1917 - THE WAR CLASS, by                    
First Line: Down the long white road beneath the / moon
Last Line: One great humanity?
Subject(s): Guns; Military Education; Soldiers; War; Youth; Military Schools


I

DOWN the long white road beneath the moon,
Like good friends arm in arm, come memories
Of four great golden years.

The smoke-dimmed lights—
The fists that beat out time to roaring songs
Until the table rocks—the hearty grip
When hand strikes hand at parting.
Swirling shapes
Of music—melody of movement and
Of glancing color—smiles that brim the night.

A cone of yellow light thrown sharply down
Upon a table piled with books, where men
Philosophize, and smoke, for half the night
And melt together all that they have learned.
A great arena, banked with tier on tier
Of staring faces, bent upon the field
Where ancient enemies are met again.
And then the goal! The vast upheaving throng
Of Cardinal victors, firing the dusk.

II

And through the dusk the road of mystery
That leads away into the future. There,
Behind the silver haze, are all the rare,
Untasted joys we dream of.

Firesides
Alight at evening—children's voices—home.

New acres brought to harvest. Caravans
Grown rich with all the plunder of the world.
Great cities decked with laces all of light.

World courts of even handed justice. Schools
Where children of a kindlier race
Learn life. New mercy and new knowledge joined
To put the fight for bread behind us all.
A people free to sing, and not ashamed
Of singing, or of life.

Firesides
Alight at evening—children's voices—home.

III

And while we dream, the hammer stroke of guns
Is forging out the future. All the world
Beats up the drums of death. Hot hymns of hate
Are man's new music—battle is his grave
And out of skulls he builds his monuments.
And still we dream, and dull ourselves with dreams!
In years to come we will do this and that!—
Tomorrow—always thus—tomorrow—
Fools!
Can we not see that our tomorrows are
But echoes of this vast and thunderous NOW?

The thronging, silent centuries look down—
The ghosts of unborn stars wait breathlessly
As for a new creation—or for night.
From victory—from black defeat—from death—
From hate that shrieks for every sacrifice
And love denying none, shall nothing come?
Or out of chaos shall our Youth create
One great humanity?





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