Angel of Peace, the hounds of war,
Unleasehed, are all abroad.
And war's foul trade again is made
Man's leading aim in life.
Blood dyes the billow and the sod;
The very winds are rife
With tales of slaughter. Angel, pray,
What can we do or think or say
In times like these?
"Child, think of God!"
"Before this little speck in space
Called Earth with light was shod,
Great chains and tiers of splendid spheres
Were fashioned by his hand.
Be thing the part to love and laud,
Nor seek to understand.
Go lift thine eyes from death-charged guns
To One who made a billion suns,
And trust and wait.
"Child, dwell on God!"
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Cosmopolitan 58 (Jan. 1915): 130-131.
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