NON NOBIS
Oh, this inexorable mind without expression
Driving me through certain hope to utter black depression
For which there is no word
But the caging of a bird:
While there are the living
Who know the art is giving
There is no mistaking
Hands are made for making.
Flowers for the living from a Hero's grave arising!
Oh, will we learn, and when.
To think and act as men?
While our hands are taking
Where is the awaking?
1945/6