  I cannot write of turmoil, I cannot write of strife, Long since has gone the passion, I used to think was life. A calmness rests upon me, a calm I cannot break, Though worlds are trembling round me and freedom is at stake. Because I have no sorrows, because my heart’s at rest, I cannot weep with others, whose hearts are not so blest; I tremble for no hero upon the fields of France, I cannot curse the Nero who planned this gory dance. Though woman fast is winning her place in Council Halls, By work where talent leads her, by work where mercy calls, I feel no keen elation to know her triumph’s near, A triumph most unselfish, a heavier weight to bear. The calm that rests upon me, the calm that comes with years, Suggests that man’s impatience is the cause of most he fears, Suggests that war’s upheaval is but the anvil clink, The welding by the Forger of yet another link In that great chain of progress that binds successive time, From chaos on to order, and then to heights sublime! |
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