Classic Poem

Ye, Queen, who bear the birth-pangs of a world,
To whom the nations in this hour of stress,
For succor look, and for the ruth to bless,
Ye, great, whose fondled darlings, combed and curled,
Are in the shell-torn, foreign trenches hurled,
To stay the hellish Hun, who else would press,
The cup of degradation and distress,
To lips of men with freedom's flag unfurled —
Ye valiant mother-band who gladly gave,
The first-fruits of your riven wombs to save,
The world from horrors darker than the grave,
Ye are the Brave , who in your country's need
Did sow the trenches with your Precious Seed —
The greatest gift of war, and valor's noblest deed.