Charles Kingsley - 21st September 1870Charles Kingsley - 21st September 1870
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Speak low, speak little; who may sing
While yonder cannon-thunders boom?
Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring:
Nor `pipe amid the crack of doom.`
And yet—the pines sing overhead,
The robins by the alder-pool,
The bees about the garden-bed,
The children dancing home from school.
And ever at the loom of Birth
The mighty Mother weaves and sings:
She weaves—fresh robes for mangled earth;
She sings—fresh hopes for desperate things.
And thou, too: if through Nature`s calm
Some strain of music touch thine ears,
Accept and share that soothing balm,
And sing, though choked with pitying tears.
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