Apostrophe to youth

You will not think that once this troubled world
 Wished on the moon, roll-called the evening stars,
Charted the passage of a comet hurled
 Through outer space.

Now every creature wars.

No longer does the architecture of
 A blade of grass intrigue our small mankind,
 And all young lovers whisper of their love
In bitter haste.

The sea of life is mined.

Grieve not alone for bruised and broken flesh,
 Young cries of anguish scattered on the wind;
 Mourn for unfinished dreams caught in the mesh
 Of war's deceit.

 Now is all beauty thinned
 To every essence, suitable for men
Who, grim past recognition, march again.

FRANCES DAVIS ADAMS-MOORE.