What kind of peace will bloodshed ensure?

A chilly Peace infests the Grass
The Sun respectful lies—
Not any Trance of industry
These shadows scrutinize—

Whose Allies go no more astray
For service or for Glee—
But all mankind deliver here
From whatsoever sea—

So, if we don't learn to live in peace, we'll have to rest in peace. What about the value of speaking Truth to Power, regardless of the impact?

Power is a familiar growth—
Not foreign— not to be—
Beside us like a bland Abyss
In every company—
Escape it— there is but a chance—
When consciousness and clay
Lean forward for a final glance—
Disprove that and you may—

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—

We certainly live in Interesting Times, as the ancient Chinese curse goes. Any final thoughts on how we should bear up?

We dream— it is good we are dreaming—
It would hurt us— were we awake—
But since it is playing— kill us,
And we are playing— shriek—

What harm? Men die— externally—
It is a truth— of Blood—
But we— are dying in Drama—
And Drama— is never dead—

No end of Drama, but an end of our time together for now. We thank you, Emily Dickinson, for kindly stopping by. We at Dead Poets Today, and our readers, are eternally grateful for your presence.

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample
I Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886

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