But shall I sing of love now, I who could only sing to the tune of the clarions of war?
And shall I forget for a woman my black frothing horse that neighs after the twanging arrows in the wind?
And shall I not lose my strength when her arms shall encircle me where thou hast girt me with the sword, O Gea, my mother immortal?
Giovannitti makes no claim for inclusion in Parnassian galleries. He believes that deeds count for more than words, and he essays but to make a handful of war-songs for the pleasure of his comrades.
Still may my song, before the sun’s
Reveille, speed the hours that tire,
While they are cleaning up their guns
Around the cheery bivouac fire.
And so, these are the rough-hewn songs of a man; of one who goes his way with his love upholding him and the Vision burning within him and the sound of battle forever in his ears and the whole-hearted hate of his enemy to spur him, and the stalwart comradeship of his fellows to make dear the thorny way.