Classic Poem

The birds flit unafraid
Through the great cannonade;
And, O Cannoniers, though ill
The forests take your skill,
And as by winter nipp'd
Scatter leaves bullet-stript
Down the shell-ravaged road —
Still in its dark abode,
In the branches of God,
The Soul sings on alone.
You may blow the dead from their crypt —
Not the dream from its throne.