saying the right words

somewhere on far atlantic there is rain
the winds drive onward and we wait to hear
of joys diminished and of times so drear
that not a person would have hope of gain
in such an age as ours filled with such pain
the price of justice seems to be too dear
and honour is too far past the frontier
not one thing seems to be honest or plain
the route we take is not a thing of choice
all words were said by those who understood
so well the meanings but who spoke too soon
and so were sorry and could not rejoice
when we desired that all would turn to good
yet things seem better underneath the moon