Classic Poem

Our rhyme shall be battle — forboding, with
the Goddess of Wrath for our goading.
For Wrath is the Spirit exploding, and
driving the engine of Doom.
Monstrous, compacted of granite hewn out
of the pit of the planet,
Heaped higher than eagle may span it,
and founded as deep as the tomb,
Uprises the Prison of Helen, the Town of
the whore-making Felon —
But his walls shall be rent as though vellum,
crushed in by the ram and the boom.

I tell you not what sacrifices, nor what
Odyssean devices,
Must regain you the lost Paradises, I only
speak of the fame,
For the words of my spirit are fateful,
and men shall be afterwards grateful
That we stormed the Unjust and Hateful,
the citadel seated in Shame.
For our blood shall not all be expended,
till the hideous walls be ascended,
But the day will be sunlike and splendid,
when our hands have established our claim.