Classic Poem

High up above the wooded ridge
Beams out a round benignant moon
Upon the village and the bridge
Through which the slumberous waters croon.

Now polished silver is the mill;
And, clad in ghostly mysteries,
The church tower glimmers on the hill
Among the sad, abiding trees;

And watched by its familiar star
Sleeps each small house, so still and white —
From all the noise and blood of war,
O God, how far removed to-night!

Unconscious of their destiny
How many drew this air for breath;
Here lived and loved... and now they see
The terrible, swift shape of death.

The bounty of these quiet skies,
The tender beauty of these lands,
Still sheds a peace upon their eyes,
And binds their hearts and nerves their hands.

That they who only thought to know
This valley in the moonlight furled,
Have heard immortal trumpets blow,
And shake the pillars of the world!