Intent

You were inveigled, you've been telling me,
You say that you were troubled by the plight
Of children suffering, a woeful sight
Not eased by gentle, soaring harmony,
Sweet voices, plaintive, a fine plangency
Like church bells on a clear, dark summer's night.
You've been insulted by the widow's mite
They wanted, to the mightiest degree.

You'll be insisting, I suppose, that grace
Was in the offing, that you raised your arm
In aid of peace; that someone felt alarm,
You claim, was wrong. But mere words won't erase
What people felt, coldness in your embrace.
You may intend no harm, but there was harm.