j
��Peter Me Arthur
No King shall walk in armour,
No steel be shaped to slay. For though we serve the war god
It shall not be his gain; Our beaten swords as plowshares
Shall evermore remain.
So mighty smith, be merry,
And make your anvil ring! The marvel you are shaping
All after years shall sing. He knows you as his doomsman
And trembles in his car, While you beat our swords to plowshares
For the stricken god of war.
A CHANT OF WAR
OHN SMITH, the farmer, riding on his disk harrow, Disking his bean ground for wheat, was busy, yet idle. Jolting over the field he watched the blades cutting the
soil [under
Smelled the damp earth, watched the weeds being worked He clicked to his horses and slapped them with the lines
to keep them moving. He heard the crickets chirping in the dry grass on the
headlands.
He heard the hens cackling at the barn. He saw the spider webs sparkling in the sunshine. There were flocks of cow-birds around the cattle in the
pasture.
A neighbour was cutting seed clover with a clacking
mower ; [warns ;
Another was cutting corn making shocks like wig-
And over all was the warm September sunshine. [sky.
Even the sun seemed near and neighbourly in the hazy
And because there was nothing to think about there came
a thought of the war.
�� �
