Classic Poem

His mother bids him go without a tear;
His sweetheart walks beside him, proudly gay,
" No coward have I loved, " her clear eyes say —
The band blares out and all the townsfolk cheer.

Yet in his heart he thinks: " I am afraid!
I am afraid of Fear — how can I tell
If in the ordeal 't will go ill or well?
How can man tell how bravely man is made? "

Steady he waits, obeying brisk command,
Head up, chin firm, and every muscle steeled, —
Thinking: " I shot a rabbit in a field
And sickened at its blood upon my hand. "

The sky is blue and little winds blow free,
He catches up his comrades' marching-song;
Their bayonets glitter as they sweep along —
( " How ghastly a red bayonet must be! " )

How the folk stare! His comrade on the right
Whispers a joke — is gay and debonair,
Sure of himself and quite at odds with care; —
But does he, too, turn restlessly at night?

From each familiar scene his inner eye
Turns to far fields by Titans rent and torn;
For in that struggle must his soul be born,
To look upon itself and live — or die!