Days into years, the doorways worn at the sill,

Years into lives, the plans for long increase

Come true at last for men of God's good will:

These are the things we mean by saying, Peace.

Not scholar's calm, nor gift of church or state,

Nor the everlasting date of death's release;

But the careless noon, the houses lighted late,

Harvest and holiday: the people's peace.

Peace is the mind's old wilderness cut down

In a wider nation than our fathers dreamed.

Peace is the main street in a country town;

Our children named; our fathers' lives redeemed.

The people's peace is ours, and who says No?

Green leaves and landscape; folly, danger, sleep,

And obvious hurt, and the joy that does not show,

Are sometime any man's to take, to keep.

The peace not past our understanding falls

Like light on the old soft white tablecloth

At winter supper warm between four walls,

A thing too simple to be tried as truth.

Having it never made a man to die,

And it asks of no man what he might not do.

Why is the people's peace in danger? Why?

Who living hates it? Who would destroy it? Who?