It is Well with the Child.

Levin Daily Chronicle, 6 December 1917, Page 1

It is Well with the Child.

(Written on a Kentish Hilltop.)

The laggard wakeful niglit hath brought a morning cool and brief; The sunlight sleeps upon the woods, where flutters not a leaf. It is a Truce of God; yet hark, a murmur comes to mc— The muttering of angry guns across tlie narrow sea. A few white clouds all motionless chequer the blue serene, The sheep, their wool dew-sprinkled yet lie quiet on the green. Only these slow, dull throbs repeat, like heavy news from afar, The thunder of the deadly guns, that slay the sheep of war. Now like a low, fierce sob it sounds, a giant's panting breath, Who deals with long mechanic swing the fearful blows of death. Now, as when dead volcanoes wake and boiling fires are hurled, And listening citics catch afar the roar that shakes their world. Here 'neatli the blue and silver vault, where shining clouds are. still, I walk, the sole heart-troubled thing on this untroubled hill, Seeing in this sweet silent scene of green and golden" plan The deep tranquility of Life's indifference to man. Mown like the grass, cut like the flower, quenched like wind-smitten' light, Our laughing ncro sons are gone—youth into ancient night; And the gods mourn, who gave them life, and hope of life for dower, As little as the mowers tall striding o'er grass and flower. They sleep, nor hear the guns, our brave—The gods give rest; but wc —- Ours is the news that comes to kill across the carelcss sea. We, who to save had joyed to die, yet, jesting, hid our fears, Stretch to the night fond, helpless hands and call the lost with tears. Those hills that drink the sunlight in, these birds whose pipings flow — Like the high gods, they know not grief nor care when heroes go. But man —'twixt God and earth—can grieve; so I walk here apart, The thudding of the cruel guns still knocking on my heart. —W. P. Peeves.