THE STINK OF PEACE
1
Damn it all! All the South stinks peace.
Your whoreson dog, Papoils, come! Lets to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
and the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
4
And I like to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash;
and it fills my heart with rejoicing
and pries wide my mouth with fast music
when I see him so scorn and defy peace,
his lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
5
The man who fears war and squats opposing
my words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
but is fit only to rot in womanish peace
far from where worth's won and the swords clash:
for the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
7
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought, 'Peace.'
...Ezra Pound