Classic Poem

I walk alone in the wind to-night,
And list as the oaks intone
An echoless dirge of bloom and blight,
In sorrowful monotone.

They tell of the haps and horror of war,
In battles of Right 'gainst Might,
Where rifles rattle and cannons roar
O'er face of heroes white.

The seething ranks in the smoke I see,
The belchings of death I hear
As the oaks intone mis-e-re-re,
For loss of the braves so dear.

The big red moon in the dull, dun West,
Sinks down from the earth and sea,
And leaves me sad with a soul's unrest
To list to their tales of dree.