Where pallid nuns the cloister trod,
The airship spills her leaden hail;
But—after all the battles—God.
Athwart the vineyard's ordered banks,
Silent the red rent forms recline,
And from their stark and speechless ranks
There flows a richer, ruddier wine;
While down the lane and through the wall
The victors writhe upon the sod,
Nor heed the onward bugle call;