REPORTED CONCESSIONS

So we must palter, falter, cringe, and shrink,

And when the bully threatens, crouch or fly.—

There are who tell me with a shuddering eye

That war's red cup is Satan's chosen drink.

Who shall gainsay them? Verily I do think

War is as hateful almost, and well-nigh

As ghastly, as this terrible Peace whereby

We halt for ever on the crater's brink

And feed the wind with phrases, while we know

There gapes at hand the infernal precipice

O'er which a gossamer bridge of words we throw,

Yet cannot choose but hear from the abyss

The sulphurous gloom's unfathomable hiss

And simmering lava's subterranean flow.