Classic Poem

It is she who makes ready the army when day is at hand,
When the bugle of labor is blowing its mighty command
Oh, fierce are the feet of the workers who answer the call,
But swifter and fiercer the toil that hath weaponed them all.
Do we boast of their brawn? Do we trumpet the cause of the fighter
Who marches at rise of the sun?
Lo! look to the woman! The heat of her labor is whiter:
Ere the work of the world has begun
She is up, and her banners are flying from yard and from alley,
The roofs are a-flutter with eloquent streamers of snow,
Oh, not for a moment her passionate fingers may dally,
Till the soldier is shod and is fed and made ready to go.

Oh, weary the heart of the host when the battle is done,
But the woman is laboring still with the set of the sun
Does the worker return? She is able and eager with bread
Does he faint? There is cheer for his soul and delight for his head
Do we trumpet our gain? Do we sing of our land and its thunder
Of factory, quarry and mill?
Lo! look to the woman! Her love, it hath compassed the wonder,
And the army swings on at her will.
For hers is the whip, and her spur is the fighter's salvation—
In the strength of Jehovah she comes
Her faith is the sword and her thrift is the shield of the nation,
And her courage is greater than drums.

March, march, march, to your victories, O Man!
Fight, fight, fight, as you've fought since time began.
But she who hath wed you and fed you and sped you,
Fulfilling Eternity's laws,
It is she who hath soldiered the Cause!