The Spike: or, Victoria College Review, 1939
Twisted roots in vain thrust up to flower
And, deaf-mules, we aspire to harmony.
Blandly, the General plots his little flags:
Orders his barley water.
No facile, flacid talk of cause,
No searing flame of hate
Must thwart us, nerved for peace,
From our resolve of kindness.
Nothing that dims, perplexes, warps, . . .
. . . But we are become inarticulate. . . .