There is a sort of war by glances made,
In which the tender eyes are forged to knives,
Now sheathed a blink, now nakedly displayed,
To pierce the heart, or flay the nerves alive.
War made by touch begs skill in great degree,
For touch when grossly used can only kill;
To conquer dust is bitter victory:
It is the gentlest touch that breaks the will.
Of all war, that by dreams is cruelest,
For only those who trusts and secrets keep
Are armed to land upon the shores of rest,
And raze the helpless citadel of sleep.
No truce is possible, no peace shall come
When hearts that beat together bang the drum.