Classic Poem

I hear a threnode sweep the skies of war
Where great archangels from the void of night
Drop pitying tears, as soft they take their flight,
Above the vanquished and the conqueror.
The charnel trenches reek with clotted gore.
The rose of Earth — dear Youth — now dies in fight;
The Heart of Mercy shudders at the sight,
And frenzied Europe seems one abattoir.

The storming bugles scarce begin to blow,
And yet the quivering grass is crimson-steeped,
And mangled legions will in anguish writhe;
Man trembles at immeasurable woe,
As on the mad World's scarlet field is heaped
The swath of Death's insatiable scythe!