 | Poems of the war |  |
162
[Oh! craven, craven! while my brothers fall]
Oh! craven, craven! while my brothers fall,Like grass before the mower, in the fight,
I, easy vassal to my own delight,
Am bound with flowers, a far too willing thrall.
Day after day along the streets I crawl,
Shamed in my manhood, reddening at the sight
Of every soldier who upholds the right
With no more motive than his country's call.
I love thee more than honor; ay, above
That simple duty, conscience-plain and clear
To dullest minds, whose summons all men hear.
163
In the grand marches, I cannot but fear
That thou wilt scorn me for my very love.
| Poems of the war | |