All the lithe limbs marred, the wild wings broken?
What black magic
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,—