Classic Poem

Why do ye rush, oh wicked folk,
To a fresh war?
Again the cries, the sword, the smoke —
What for?

Has not sufficient precious blood
Been fiercely shed?
Must ye spill more until ye flood
The dead?

Not even armed in rivalry
Your hate's employed;
But 'gainst yourselves until ye be
Destroyed!

Even when beasts slay beasts, they kill
Some other kind.
Can it be madness makes ye still
So blind?

Make answer! Is your conscience numb?
Each ashy face
Admits, with silent lips, the dumb
Disgrace.

Murder of brothers! Of all crime,
Vilest and worst!
Pause — lest ye be, through all of time,