Mangled or blotted out?—who shall forgive
The war while time endures?
Back of the shouting mob, the brazen bands,
The soldiers marching well,
Gangrene cries out and Rupert Brooke's hands
Clutch in a hemorrhage of hell.
Yet you found God through this? through war,
Through love found vision, perhaps peace?
Keep them in your breast like the morning star—