Makes thee brood on War, who dreadest these things?
“Is it but the haunting of the bugles,
Floating memories of the war-time bugles
Blowing over those far fields of childhood,
Pleasant in the foolish ear of childhood,
When the sword-hilt
Seemed but made to shine and hold a jewel?”
Then the inward Voice that gave the mandate,—
Bade me sing of battle,—bade me answer:
Well I know the symbol of the sword-hilt,