My goal is peace—not peace at any price,
While yet ensanguined jaws of Evil yawn
Hungry and pitiless: Nay, peace were vice

Until the cruel dragon-teeth be drawn,
And the wronged victims of Oppression be
Delivered from its hateful rule, and free!

When comes that hour, resentment laid aside,
Into a plowshare will I beat my sword;
The weaker Nations' strength shall be my pride,
Their gladness my exceeding great reward;
And not in vain shall be the tears now shed,
Nor vain the service of the gallant dead.

I war against the folly that is War,

The futile sacrifice that naught hath stayed, The Great Delusion men have perished for,

The lie that hath the souls of men betrayed: For faith I war, humanity, and trust; For peace on earth—a lasting peace, and just! -FLORENCE EARLE COATES.

BETWEEN THE LINES

When consciousness came back, he found he lay
Between the opposing fires, but could not tell
On which hand were his friends; and either way
For him to turn was chancy-bullet and shell
Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare
Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day.
He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare,

Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay,

And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped

At random in a turnip-field between

The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped
Through that unending battle of unseen,
Deadlocked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent
He rolled upon his back within the pit,
And lay secure, thinking of all it meant-
His lying in that little hole, sore hit,
But living, while across the starry sky

* *

Shrapnel and shell went screeching overheadOf all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed * If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light,

Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair

The way his mother'd taught him-too dog-tired
After the long day's serving in the shop,
Inquiring what each customer required,
Politely talking weather, fit to drop *

And now for fourteen days and nights, at least,
He hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain
In muddy trenches, napping like a beast
With one eye open, under sun and rain
And that unceasing hell-fire * * *

It was strange

How things turned out-the chances! You'd just got To take your luck in life, you couldn't change

Your luck.

And so here he was lying shot

Who just six months ago had thought to spend

His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps *
And now, God only knew how he would end!

He'd like to know how many of the chaps
Had won back to the trench alive, when he
Had fallen wounded and been left for dead,
If any! *

*

This was different, certainly, From selling knots of tape and reels of thread And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got"'s And "Do you keep" 's till there seemed no escape From everlasting serving in a shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop, With swollen ankles, tired * * *

But he was tired

Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached
For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench—
Just duller when he slept than when he waked—
Crouching for shelter from the steady drench

And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed And shells went whining harmless overhead— Harmless, at least, as far as he * *

*

But Dick

Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday,
At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick
Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way,

And brought them butter in a lordly dish-
Butter enough for all, and held it high,

Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish

When plump upon the plate from out the sky

The shrieking and the whistling and the stink

He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'T was luck

*

Perhaps * * Yet, only think things out a bit, And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk!

And he'd liked Dick * * * and yet when Dick was

hit,

He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk

He should have thought would feel it when his mate
Was blown to smithereens-Dick, proud as punch,
Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate-
But he had gone on munching his dry hunch,
Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb.
Perhaps 't was just because he dared not let
His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum.
He dared not now, though he could not forget.

Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 't was luck
From first to last; and you'd just got to trust
Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck
As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must,

And better to die grinning *

*

Quiet now

Had fallen on the night. On either hand
The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow
The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned
The starry sky. He'd never seen before

So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known
That there were stars, somehow before the war
He'd never realized them-so thick-sown,
Millions and millions. Serving in the shop,
Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights
Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop,
You didn't see much but the city lights.
He'd never in his life seen so much sky

As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer
The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try
To count the stars-they shone so bright and clear.

Yes, it was number eight.

And what was the next thing that she required?
(Too bad of customers to come so late,

At closing time!) Again within the shop
He handled knots of tape and reels of thread,
Politely talking weather, fit to drop * * *

When once again the whole sky overhead

Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell
And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily
He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell