Because he made them, in His image, men....
So—were your talent mine—I’d write of war
For those who, coming after, know it not.
And if posterity should ask of me
What high, what base emotions keyed weak flesh
To face such torments, I would answer: “You!
Not for themselves, O daughters, grandsons, sons,
Your tortured forebears wrought this miracle;
Not for themselves, accomplished utterly
This loathliest task of murderous servitude;