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.