Light, but no heat—a flash, but not a blaze!
Nor is it mere strength that the short word boasts;
It serves of more than fight or storm to tell,
The roar of waves that clash on rock-bound coasts,
The crash of tall trees when the wild winds swell,
The roar of guns, the groans of men that die
On blood-stained fields. It has a voice as well
For them that far off on their sick beds lie;
For them that weep, for them that mourn the dead;
For them that laugh, and dance, and clap their hand;