Classic Poem

Dear foe, I know thou 'lt win the fight.
I know thou hast the stronger bark,
And thou art sailing in the light,
While I am creeping in the dark.
Thou dost not dream that I am crying,
As I come up with colors flying.

I clear away my wounded, slain,
With strength like frenzy, strong and swift;
I do not feel the tug and strain,
Though dead are heavy, hard to lift.
If I looked in their faces dying,
I could not keep my colors flying.

Dear foe, it will be short,—our fight,—
Though lazily thou train'st thy guns;
Fate steers us,—me to deeper night,
And thee to brighter seas and suns;
But thou 'lt not dream that I am dying,
As I sail by with colors flying!