Classic Poem

[ To the Invaders ]

Lords of disaster, waiting still to reap
New glory for the dooms that you have sown,
New glory for the ruin, stone on stone,
And bleeding tribute wrung from them that weep;
Great is your faith, above the watch you keep,
Till there shall spring some vintage of your own
Out of the tilth of blood and tears alone,
And trodden breath still crying from the deep!

Yet, lords of famine, one gift late-discerned,
But still a triumph and a dwelling place,—
One master-work of might is surely done.
Only your chosen way could so have earned
The men and brothers of the Belgian race,
Their everlasting stronghold in the Sun.