by Angela Morgan (1875-1957)
In spite of war, in spite of death, In spite of all man's sufferings, Something in me laughs and sings And I must praise with all my breath. In spite of war, in spite of hate, Lilacs are blooming at my gate, Tulips are tripping down the path In spite of war, in spite of wrath. "Courage!" the morning-glory saith; "Rejoice!" the daisy murmureth, And just to live is so divine When pansies lift their eyes to mine. The clouds are romping with the sea, And flashing waves call back to me That naught is real but what is fair, That everywhere and everywhere A glory liveth through despair. Though guns may roar and cannons boom, Roses are born and gardens bloom; My spirit still may light its flame At that same torch whence poppies came, Where morning's altar whitely burns Lilies may lift their silver urns In spite of war, in spite of shame. And in my ear a whispering breath, "Wake from the nightmare! Look and see That life is naught but ecstasy In spite of war, in spite of death!"