So, we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.——Lord Byron
Although some might react to the pathos in Karl Rove’s wavering voice as he paid tribute to his friendship with and admiration of George W Bush, I am unable to translate those dog-eared euphemisms which have so often been used to attribute an almost superhuman capacity to Rove as a political strategist and architect into anything more than ill-placed platitudes. Here is a man whose power was often hidden and protected by those even more powerful than he and in many ways, were tragically less able and more flawed. He built castles in the air, nefarious constructs, tainted with the blood of sacrifice, and cursed because not one drop of that sacrificial blood was his.
There are those critics and pundits who disavow comparisons to Vietnam; however much they protest, the guile and deceit that opened the veins of our compatriots, enemies, and innocents speaks otherwise: the dead are not raised from their endless sleep on a technicality –the dank earth moderates their debate and it’s embrace is as impervious as it is final.
While the Byron’s poem has its place, it does not begin to describe adequately the horror for which Rove’s flip perspicacity has been responsible. Rove’s culpability does not exonerate his chief ally, George W Bush, who as well as Rove, had opportunity in his youth to demonstrate his commitment to the principles for which he asks others to pledge their lives. The indiscretions of youth should not be forgotten particularly when truth and human life are victims of such political amnesia. In addition to Byron I offer this obscure poem from the 60’s, which was inspired by the act it describes. I’m certain the scene will be etched in Robert McNamara’s memory for as long as he lives.
Norman Morrison
by
David Ferguson
Not an unhappy man
but one who could not stand
in the silence of his mind
the cathedral
emptied of its ritual
and sounding about his ears
like a whirlwind.He cradled the child awhile
then set her down nearby
and spoke in a tongue of flame
near the Pentagon
where they had no doubt.Other people’s pain
can turn so easily
into a kind of play.
There’s beauty
in the accurate
trajectory. Death
conscripts the mind
with its mysterious
precision.
