Classic Poem

Oh! it's a brave show the small shops are making,
Washed and made fair by suns and winds of spring;
The windows stir, and the gold light comes flaking
Down from each sign with its shrewd lettering.

One, two, there are gray walls and pale-green shutters —
Three, four — pink walls and shutters of dark green;
And over each the one flag lifts and flutters,
Ripples its blue, folding the stars between,

And curls its crimson like flames about a martyr,
Fills with the wind and trembles like a thought.
The villagers draw near, pass on, linger and barter,
And haply see and haply see it not.

But we — we've given our all, our love of living,
Youth, joy, and hope — for these were ours to give.
One thought they were; but one; past all forgiving:
That these should be and freedom cease to live.

How should we save when freedom stood a claimant,
Whose light was ours as freely as the sun?
What was to give but all, and for repayment,
Less than the praising word for work well done?

Laurel — maybe some darker leaf than laurel
Shall find our brows insensate as the clay —
It matters not. This is the supreme quarrel,
And the end comes. What word is there to say?