The Wounded

Stupidity and Selfishness and Fear,     Who hold enslaved the intellect of Man,     Have found their victims here.     We saw them go, alert to seek the van     Where phantom Glory showered her withering leaves;     Now they return who can.     Slowly, full-fraught with pain, the vessel heaves     From labouring seas, and creeps along the bay     To where the city grieves.     Happy are those who limp the dusty way;     And those whose eyes can meet the loving glance,     Happy indeed are they.     But mock them not with babble of romance:     They have glared at death across the orient rocks     Or in the mire of France.     O welcome to your land of herds and flocks     And fields that pray toward a fairy sky     That promises and mocks.     Welcome! our eyes are strained and sorrow-dry,     Watching for peace and you, and every heart     Would fain, but cannot, cry.     For you who, led by love, have borne your part     Where wars black ploughshare turns the bloody sand     And crops of hatred start     For you and by your help, heroic band,     We swear by love and labour to make this     A lovelier, worthier land.     Nor shall we let the home-bred serpent hiss     Unscotched upon our hearth, if ever here     Our hope and fortune kiss.     The workers of the battered world draw near,     Scorning a foemans name. The heart of Man     In every land is dear.