Poems (Cromwell)/Conflict
For works with similar titles, see Conflict.
CONFLICT
Divided by the dark, Our foils converge. A spark You kindled not, My Enemy, A spark I never drew From bitter fires that sear me through and through, Gleams fitfully.
That spark, that little light, Is lit where foils unite. It lives in spite of us, My Foe: In intervening space, This little eye that darts from place to place Sees clear, I know.
Opinions are not one, And man's criterion Is not in us. Between, above, The cross that weapons frame, My Adversary, gleams a truth whose name Might still be Love.