would conspire
Upon our broken glass with blue-red fire,
As one might lift a pale thing from the tomb.

LIII

He was the glazier out of Erzerum,
Whose wizardry would make the children cry--
There will be no such wizardry when I
Am broken by the chariot-wheels of Doom.

LIV

The chariot-wheels of Doom! Now, hear them roll
Across the desert and the noisy mart,
Across the silent places of your heart--
Smile on the driver you will not cajole.

LV

I never look upon the placid plain
But I must think of those who lived before
And gave their quantities of sweat and gore,
And went and will not travel back again.

LVI

Aye! verily, the fields of blandishment
Where shepherds meditate among their cattle,
Those are the direst of the fields of battle,
For in the victor's train there is no tent.

LVII

Where are the doctors who were nobly fired
And loved their toil because we ventured not,
Who spent their lives in searching for the spot
To which the generations have retired?

LVIII

"Great is your soul,"--these are the words they preach,--
"It passes from your framework to the frame
Of others, and upon this road of shame
Turns purer and more pure."--Oh, let them teach!

LIX

I look on men as I would look on trees,
That may be writing in the purple dome
Romantic lines of black, and are at home
Where lie the little garden hostelries.

LX

Live well! Be wary of this life, I say;
Do not o'erload yourself with righteousness.
Behold! the sword we polish in excess,
We gradually polish it away.

LXI

God who created metal is the same
Who will devour it. As the warriors ride
With iron horses and with iron pride--
Come, let us laugh into the merry flame.

LXII

But for the grandest flame our God prepares
The breast of man, which is the grandest urn;
Yet is that flame so powerless to burn
Those butterflies, the swarm of little cares.

LXIII

And if you find a solitary sage
Who teaches what is truth--ah, then you find
The lord of men, the guardian of the wind,
The victor of all armies and of age.

LXIV

See that procession passing down the street,
The black and white procession of the days--
Far better dance along and bawl your praise
Than if you follow with unwilling feet.

LXV

But in the noisy ranks you will forget
What is the flag. Oh, comrade, fall aside
And think a little moment of the pride
Of yonder sun,