Classic Poem

Under the Farm of All the Winds
Where the long lash of liberty
Whirls through the skies of war, and finds
Men in great travail, being free.

Speeds them as never slaves were sped,
Drives them as never beasts were driven,
To the white seas that wash the dead—
High hatred pure enough for heaven.

The tyrants drudge to enwall a slum,
Heap hell up slowly, as with a hod,
Carve their crimes deep into the dumb
Red granite of the wrath of God.

And we beneath unriven sky
Shame if we cannot save and stay
As stubbornly as these can die,
As patiently as those can slay;

If when the Red Cross Warrior stands,
Now reeling as his Dragon reeled,
There be not found unwounded hands
To bear him on the Red Cross shield.