The soul of man replete with God’s own force,
The call ‘to heights,’ and not the cry ‘to horse.’
Are there not better themes in this great age
For pen of poet, or for voice of sage,
Than those old tales of killing? Song is dumb
Only that greater song in time may come.
When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for,
He will not sing of War.
EUROPE
Little lads and grandsires,
Women old with care;
But all the men are dying men
Or dead men over there.
No one stops to dig graves;
Who has time to spare?
The dead men, the dead men
How the dead men stare.
Kings are out a-hunting—
Oh, the sport is rare;
With dying men and dead men
Falling everywhere.
Life for lads and grandsires;
Spoils for kings to share;
And dead men, dead men,
Dead men everywhere.