A Prize for Euripides

In Athens of old when the women wailed of war
To the magic of melody wrought of a mighty one,
The folk who listened grudged him the fitting meed,
Missed the meaning, blind to a higher deed
Than any deed of the sword beneath the sun;
Message of ruth sung in that place of yore.

To-day, with the world shaken with turmoil and tears,
Peace but a homeless dream by a fireless shrine
And clash of armies louder than all the seas,
First prize goes to the wise Euripides
Bidding us heed, in deathless line upon line,
Sorrow and pity and love, across the years!
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