Classic Poem

Put off, put off your mail, O Kings,
And beat your brands to dust!
Your hands must learn a surer grasp,
Your hearts a better trust.

Oh, bend aback the lance's point,
And break the helmet bar;
A noise is in the morning wind,
But not the note of war.

Upon the grassy mountain paths
The glittering hosts increase—
They come! They come! How fair their feet!
They come who publish peace.

And victory, fair victory,
Our enemies are ours!
For all the clouds are clasped in light,
And all the earth with flowers.

Aye, still depressed and dim with dew!
But wait a little while,
And with a radiant deathless rose
The wilderness shall smile.

And every tender living thing
Shall feed by streams of rest;
Nor lamb shall from the flock be lost,
Nor nestling from the nest.