The Song of the Pacifist

If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;

Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:

By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!

If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;

That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;

That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;

If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,

By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear....

Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.

Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:

When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;

And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.

Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;

When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:

Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.

When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;

When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea

In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace... THAT WILL BE VICTORY.