LXI
God who created metal is the same
Who will devour it. As the warriors ride
With iron horses and with iron pride—
Come, let us laugh into the merry flame.
LXII
But for the grandest flame our God prepares
The breast of man, which is the grandest urn;
Yet is that flame so powerless to burn
Those butterflies, the swarm of little cares.
LXIII
And if you find a solitary sage
Who teaches what is truth—ah, then you find
The lord of men, the guardian of the wind,
The victor of all armies and of age.
LXIV
See that procession passing down the street,
The black and white procession of the days—
Far better dance along and bawl your praise
Than if you follow with unwilling feet.
LXV
But in the noisy ranks you will forget
What is the flag. Oh, comrade, fall aside
And think a little moment of the pride
Of yonder sun, think of the twilight's net.