Classic Poem

A VISION OF HEROES

Then, through the mellow twilight air,
There falls another sight:
A thousand white-winged pilots fare
High in the sunset light,
And all that men or devils dare
Is centered in their might.

These neighbors of the stars, who hold
The bridle of the gale,
Whose courage, in the zenith cold,
Is still their stoutest mail —
To whom should fitlier be told
That freedom shall not fail?

They know the cruel Teuton heart
That made their mothers weep,
That nothing sown, in life or art,
One now may surely reap,
For, flying over church and mart,
They think of Rheims and Ypres.

With joy they view Siena's towers,
And Pisa's treasures three,
And the dear City of the Flowers,
And Milan's tracery,
And think " This Beauty still is ours
Because our land is free. "

Then, with an old-new pride astart,
On Venice they look down,
On the one miracle of Art
More fair than its renown,
Where every poet leaves a part
Of his own laurel crown.

And from the organ-pipes of light
That did her pathways strew,
And from her domes, now drowned in night,
They hear the prayer anew:
" Fight ye for Freedom and for Right,
But fight for Beauty, too. "