Respectable men have witnessed terrible things,

And rich and poor things extraordinary,

These murder-haunted Years. Even so, even so,

Respectable men seem still respectable,

The ordinary no less ordinary,

For our inherited features cannot show

More than traditional grief and happiness

That rise from old and worn and simple springs.

How can an eye or brow

Disclose the gutted towns and.the millions dead?

They have too slight an artistry.

Between us and the things that change us

A covenant long ago was set

And is prescriptive yet.

A single grief from man or God

Freely will let

Change in and bring a stern relief.

A son or daughter dead

Can bend the back or whiten the head,

Break and remould the heart,

Stiffen the face into a mask of grief.

It is an ancient art.

The impersonal calamities estrange us

From our own selves, send us abroad

In desolate thoughtlessness,

While far behind our hearts know what they know,

Yet cannot feel, nor ever express.