War and Peace

I

November wind drives the scudding clouds
Across the half-embattled sun, wind and
Sunlight alternate their favors on the
Churchyard stones; within the meeting house
Of ancestors, the covered heads are bowed.

How white the stones, some sun-touched, now
Without, how pearl and smooth the walls
Within, but I cannot rest quiet as I
Pray, for thoughts, deep thoughts, are
Stirring me. Remember us, remember us, they cry.

I have a vision of red, red-coated soldiers:
Muskets lifted to defend. War is not glorious,
A voice replies. I have a vision of courage,
Of blood shed, of ugliness and misery and loss,
Deeper than the heart can fully comprehend.

But in the silent white church, the heads
Are bowed in prayer for peace. I have
A vision of hands taking up weapons,
Man against man, brother against
Brother in civil strife. It is a senseless cause

For which they fight in name of freedom,
Mercy, independence, peace. We did not
Ask title to conquest, imperial might,
We did not seek the burden; it is ours.
I have a vision of red, red-coated soldiers.

They created a colony out of the hard land
Which did not yield without labor and pain.
They prayed in a white church. They sang
Hymns of gladness and praise. They sheltered
Their children from attack and took arms to war.

Is it our duty, a woman's simple soul is
Given to ask her grandfather of yore, who
Took a musket from a Lexington tavern
And perhaps could not even see their eyes.
The Royalists were horrified. Is it our duty,

One asked the other, brother to brother, to
Fight for, against, a black man or white,
In the name of freedom, to kill a red
Face who was the land's first inhabitant?
Is it our duty, is it right? A woman thinks

Of husband, brother, son. Nothing is won
From life without struggle, hardship, pain.
There are a thousand wars in the heart
And on the battlefield to touch the courage
Of man. My husband, will you leave me, will you fight?

There are a thousand battles in the mind
And conflicts on the thresholds of the intellect,
Seiges in the heart, seizures in the stomach and
The bowels of life. We do not escape, we
Who stand against,  alone.  And so must fight.

They created a colony, we inherit a nation of wealth,
Did we earn it, we who have learned and
Learned to develop, defend our material wealth,
Our happiness, freedom, our spiritual health?
Do we defend it or do we halt back, seeing

We trample the hand of a peasant caught
In an ignorant land—it is an unknown hand.
A human hand, a hand that is human we
Know as a nation tramples a town—do we
Have the right, is it our duty? I ask

My grandfathers of yore, deafened at Lexington,
About the nature of man, the struggle for
Peace. Should the shot have been fired? The
Royalists were horrified. I have a vision of
Man, marching, holding a drum. War

Is no glory, all pain, all suffering, the
Greatest contest, the last, for life and
Death—is there a duty, a right? The heads
In the church are bowed. The stones without are
Still. Up through three centuries come the

Voices of my country, clearing its conscience,
Unused to conquering, dominion, justifying
Blood and destiny. You have a duty, you have
A right—even as a woman must bear her sons,
Her grief, her suffering. Man and duty are bound.