Classic Poem

I sometimes fancy in France is left alone
The love of beauty. — What our world will be
When foul-breathed iron-clads possess the sea
That once was white-armed Venus white-waved throne —
When with one piteous cry, one deathless moan,
She feels that fragrance from her rose must flee, —
What then from earth will fade eternally
Art dimly guesses; not the worst is known.

America, with England in her wake,
Worships alone success and wealth. She strives
On the waste debris of uncounted lives
Babels to build that shadow the daybreak
And mock the stars. Vast issues are at stake.
Choose well, before the hour of doom arrives.