Classic Poem

We ask for peace. We, at the bound
Of Life, are weary of the round
In search of Truth. We know the quest
Is not for us, the vision blest
Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned,
We go, with heads bowed to the ground,
And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned
Let us forget the past unrest, —
We ask for peace.

Our strained ears are deaf, — no sound
May reach them more; no sight may wound
Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best,
And, while we totter down the West,
Unto that last, that open mound, —
We ask for peace.