“Ode to Eris, Goddess of Discord”
Now that you’ve been given a mini-planet
Fin'lly, of your own, will you go from Terra?
Your laws are here carved out of granite;
All of our wishes wear your tiara.
Maybe if us Earthlings could quit this scrimmage
Long enough to tell if another manner
Of play might suit us more, we’d salvage
Prizes to render the least a winner.
Leave us if you must with the golden apple:
Surely in our poverty something glitters
Of dreams that don’t require iron’s grapnel,
Smoky removal, and marching orders.
“Our fathers to their graves have gone;
Their strife is past, their triumph won;
But sterner trials wait the race
Which rises in their honored place;
A moral warfare with the crime
And folly of an evil time.”
—John Greenleaf Whittier
Mood.
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