Classic Poem

Each warring nation importunes Thy throne
With fervent prayer, storming th' inviolate gates;
Lo! at the shrine the suppliant priest awaits
Thy favor to his country—his alone.
Only to Thee the victor is foreknown:
Yet though the prayer from Emperors, Kings and States
Rises like incense, the unheeding Fates,
Austere, weave on with obdurate hearts of stone.
Still o'er the battle Death's gray wings descend,
Awful with scarlet, and our cherished dreams
Of Peace dissolve … We pause in numbed suspense:
Baffled we gaze; we cannot comprehend
A God who views the carnage, and yet seems
The Spirit of supreme Indifference.