The war that was, and again was,
never did it lapse, never was there peace,
a vigil sworn to peace, peace only.
Never was there not, in hearts, on tongues,
a protest of to-morrows,
according to the desire of the heart,
and to the will of the tongue.
There were never covenants:
the covenants which are told of were but trials.
There have been trials but never covenants.
For each new covenant made the other old;
and old was each new covenant,
by that it was a trial,
truth-magic of the moment,
a mortal winning-post exalted,
dressed in the winner’s garments
and, man-like scarecrow,
hailed in the wooden name of God.