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There is no fitter end than this. No need is now to yearn nor sigh. We know the glory that is his, A glory that can never die. Surely you knew it long before, Knew all along that he was made For a swift radiant morning, for A sacrificing swift night-shade.
This poem is in the public domain.
I have not brought my Odyssey With me here across the sea; But you’ll remember, when I say How, when they went down Sparta way, To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn Horses were harnessed, rations drawn, Equipment polished sparkling bright, And breakfasts swallowed (as the white Of Eastern heavens turned to gold)— The dogs barked, swift farewells were told. The sun springs up, the horses neigh, Crackles the whip thrice—then away! From sun-go-up to sun-go-down The gallant horses galloped, till The wind across the downs more chill Blew, the sun sank and all the road Was darkened, that it only sh
There is such change in all those fields, Such motion rhythmic, ordered, free, Where ever-glancing summer yields Birth, fragrance, sunlight, immanency, To make us view our rights of birth. What shall we do?
When you see millions of the mouthless dead Across your dreams in pale battalions go, Say not soft things as other men have said, That you’ll remember. For you need not so. Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow. Nor honour.