Classic Poem

War has no heroes: madness comes
When bugles call, sweet-voiced and clear,
And when the startled warriors hear
The sudden roll of answering drums.

War has no heroes: madness grows
When steel is flashing in the sun,
And when, through rising dust-clouds dun,
The battle forms, in serried rows.

When bullets whistle merry strains,
And foamy steeds dash riderless,
Cowards forget themselves and press
Into the fray—then madness reigns.

Heroic deeds of peace sing I,
Noblest and grandest of all time;
Devotion perfect, faith sublime,
Courage that scorns to faint or fly.

Yea, bring war's vaunted great ones forth,
And all their bloody deeds rehearse;
In pale-faced nun and gentle nurse
I see a loftier, truer worth.

No glory clamor, no pretense
Is round their quiet courage flung
Who go with Christ-like zeal among
The flying shafts of pestilence.

They die, if need be; not with shout
Of victory with latest breath:
Pierced by the poisoned darts of Death,
Their lives ooze slowly, sadly out.

Let scornful pessimist be dumb,
For now I know the earth will drift
Through gloom of ages into rift
And glow of fair millennium.