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 tomorrows, obedient to the desires of the heart, and to the will of the tongue. There were never vows, never to be forsworn. The pledges promised were but trials. There have been trials, but never commitments. For each new pact made the other old; and old was each new pact, 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.