If human mouths were really roses, my dear,—
(Why must we link things so?—)
I would tear yours petal by petal with slow murder.
I would pluck the stamens, the pistils,
The gold and the green,—
Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath
On a cold wave of death (CONRAD AIKEN)

War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.

- and fear the reproach of your neighbors at hand