Classic Poem

The red flame of war, the anguish of woman,
The dropped bomb, the gas-choked breath,
The groans of the stricken, or the swift death —
These, alas, are but human!

'Tis not for these my heart sinks — not for these!
Their horrors pass like a sick dream.
Their scars fade in Time's detergent stream.
Oh! not for these!

But oh, for faith betrayed cringes my soul.
For long dishonour brief, cowed peace.
For Freedom stripped and cast to the loud pack.
This stain endures. For this cringes my soul.