WHEN will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut, Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs? When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it? O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite, That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo, He comes to brood and sit. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE PEACOCK OF FRANCE by MARIANNE MOORE THURSDAY by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ESTHER; A YOUNG MAN'S TRAGEDY: 51 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ONE WAY OF LOVE by ROBERT BROWNING TO A CAPTIOUS CRITIC by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE VOICELESS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES UNDER HOUSE ARREST IN WINDSOR by HENRY HOWARD |