But gropers both through fields of thought confined
We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly planned,
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,
And in each other’s dearest ways we stand,
And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.
When it is peace, then we may view again
With new-won eyes each other’s truer form
And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm
We’ll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
When it is peace. But until peace, the storm
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
This is the last of the battlefield poetry entries until next year. I am getting battle fatigue rolling around in all this blood and gore for the past two weeks. The poetry of World War I is remarkable in its intensity but I could never make it my daily fare. In my opinion there are much more interesting themes to read about than men killing other men.