I wend my flight to peaceful, quiet fields
Where tillers ever tireless toil;
I bid them leave their plows and homes behind,
And steel themselves with arms of spoil.
Then nursing babes at mothers’ breasts I touch,
For loud their fathers do I call;
I reck not of their mothers’ tear-stained eyes
When those do in the battle fall.
I sweep o’er peaceful cities great and strong,
Whose towers outtop the blue-ribbed sky;