Classic Poem

Now the wind of the dawn sighs,
Now red embers have burned white,
Under the darkness faints and dies
The slow-beating heart of night.

Into the darkness my eyes peer
Seeing only faces steel'd,
And level eyes that know not fear;
Yet each heart is a battlefield.

Where phantom armies foin and feint
And bloody victories are won
From the time when stars are faint
To the rising of the sun.

With banners broken, and the roll
Of drums, at dawn the phantoms fly:
A man must commune with his soul
When he marches out to die.

O day of wrath and of desire!
For each may know upon this day
Whether he be a thing of fire
Or fettered to the traitor clay.

Such is the hazard that is thrown:
We know not how the dice may fall:
All the secrets shall be known
Or else we shall not know at all.