War only wears a horrid, hydra face,
Mocking at strength and courage, youth and life.
If you were going forth to cross your sword
In fair and open, man-to-man affray,
One might be even reconciled and say,
"This is not murder; only passion bent
On pouring out its poison"—one could pray
That the day's end might see the madness done
And saner souls rise with the morrow's sun.
But this incarnate hell that yawns before