Classic Poem

The gods of war have tossed the apple of death
Into the peaceful laps of reluctant nations,
The clock of Europe is set back six thousand years
And the Servian peasants leave ungathered harvests
To be mown down in an unnameable garnering.

I see a sorrowing face lifted in a far garden,
I hear a voice upon a lonely hill,
Nay, I see uncountable millions of faces
Of women and huddled children and helpless old people,
And the pale unafraid faces of strong men going to be cut down.

It is the desperate rally of expiring feudalism,
It is the last crucifixion of the rights of man,
It is the resurrection and the day of judgment
Pronounced upon the war-gods by unescapable wisdom
That men may learn the imperative necessity of avoiding war.