The earth is weary of our foolish wars.
Her hills and shores were shaped for lovely
things,
Yet all our years are spent in bickerings
Beneath the astonished stars.
April by April laden with beauty comes,
Autumn by Autumn turns our toil to gain,
But hand at sword hilt, still we start and
strain
To catch the beat of drums.
Knowledge to knowledge adding, skill to skill,
We strive for others' good as for our own--
And then, like cavemen snarling with a bone,
We turn and rend and kill. . . . .
With life so fair, and all too short a lease
Upon our special star! Nay, love and trust,
Not blood and thunder shall redeem our dust.
Let us have peace!
--Nancy Byrd Turner
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