Classic Poem

With instruments in ill-accord a hundred men
Thrum strings that hold sweet harmonies in leash;
Twisting the keys till practiced ears are satisfied:
And then, enticingly, in cadences that surge
And flow like billows on a granite shore,
The genius of a Wagner casts a lingering spell.

These are not kinsmen, save as all mankind are kin;
Of birth and tongues diverse; of customs, creeds
And laws; of dear traditions. Bound by a single tie:
And yet, entrancingly, in diapasons grand
That first invite, then move, and then enthrall,
The soul of some great master weaves a subtle spell.

The shadows of the crosses lie upon the fields.
The chastened peoples now have tuned again
Their instruments of peace. Waiting they thrum the strings:
Now may there swell the strains majestic of a vast
Symphony of will, sounding the war-lords' knell,
As gently weaves the Master Soul his mystic spell.