Classic Poem

When Death, the silent, to the world descends
With muffled wings, the agèd near their knell;
“After Life's fitful fever they sleep well,”
For agèd life and Death have long been friends:
But when a slaughtering Nation, heartless, sends
The flower of Youth to face War's furious hell,—
Youth, made for hope and love,—oh, who shall tell
The pang and after-anguish this portends!
Youth, the beloved of heaven,—the precious rose
Most beauteous in the garden of the world,
The crowning glory from the hand of God;
Ye vengeful Kings! mark how the red stream flows,
And cower to think—your war-flags still unfurled—
With what inviolate blood you stain the sod!