Esse Et Posse
The groan of fallen Hosts; a torrid glare Of cities; battle-cries of Right and Wrong Where armies shout to rocking fleets that roar On thundering oceans to the thundering shore, And high o'er all-long, long prolonged, along The moaning caverns of the plaining air,- The cry of conscious Fate. The firmament Waves from above me like a tattered flag; And as a soldier in his lowly tent Looks up when a shot strikes the helpless rag From o'er him, and beholds the canopy Of Heaven, so, sudden to my startled eye, The Heavens that shall be! The dream fades. I stand Among the mourners of a mourning land.
English Poetry - http://www.eng-poetry.ru/english/index.php. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org