One with the turf, one with the tree As we are now, you soon shall be, As you are now, so once were we. The hundred years we looked upon
Were Goethe and Napoleon. Now twice a hundred years are gone, And you gaze back and contemplate, Lloyd George and Wilson, William's hate,
And Nicholas of the bloody fate; Us, too, who won the German war, Who knew less what the strife was for Than you, now that the conqueror
Lies with the conquered. You will say: “Here sleep the brave, the grave, the gay, The wise, the blind, who lost the way.” But for us English, for us French,
Americans who held the trench, You will not grieve, though the rains drench The hills and valleys, being these. Who pities stocks, or pities trees?
Or stones, or meadows, rivers, seas? We are with nature, we have grown At one with water, earth, and stone — Man only is separate and alone,
Earth sundered, left to dream and feel Illusion still in pain made real, The hope a mist, but fire the wheel. But what was love, and what was lust,
Memory, passion, pain or trust, Returned to clay and blown in dust, Is nature without memory — Yet as you are, so once were we,
As we are now, you soon shall be, Blind fellows of the indifferent stars Healed of your bruises, of your scars In love and living, in the wars.
Come to us where the secret lies Under the riddle of the skies, Surrender fingers, speech, and eyes. Sink into nature and become
The mystery that strikes you dumb, Be clay and end your martyrdom. Rise up as thought, the secret know. As passionless as stars bestow
Your glances on the world below, As a man looks at hand or knee. What is the turf of you, what the tree? Earth is a phantom — let it be.
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