THE UNIVERSAL STRIFE 7 



record of so much violence, we must not be 

 surprised if in the living world war prevails, 

 though peace may be desired. Even the placid 

 stream, stealing softly through its sedges, deep 

 and tranquil itself, provides a vortex of strife, 

 where every summer day millions are born but 

 to fight and die. 



And the stream itself has wrought violence. 

 High up in the hills it was born, racing out 

 into the day, careless, violent, and irrepressible. 

 It fretted the gravel, every grain of which bears 

 marks of rough usage, bruises and abrasions, 

 which have worn it almost out of recognition. 

 The original form of the fragment has been lost 

 in the endless stress of the water. The stone, 

 dislodged from the face of a rock long ages 

 ago (by frost or by the crashing descent of a 

 larger mass), lay for ages in a loamy bed, and 

 as each successive year threw its green mantle 

 above, so surely was that garment left to wither 

 and add a film to the deepening coverlid of mould. 

 Meanwhile, water began to ooze from the spot, 

 and every drop that passed rendered easier the 

 transit of its successors. The million other drops 



