(On the Declaration of War)
Not like to those who find untrodden ways;
But down the weary paths we know,
Through every change of sky and change of days
Silent, processional we go.
Not unto us the soft, unlaboured breath
Of children's hopes and children's fears:
We are not sworn to battle to the death
With all the wrongs of all the years:
We are old, we are old, and worn and school'd with ills,
Maybe our road is almost done,
Maybe we are drawn near unto the hills
Where rest is and the setting sun:
But yet a pride is ours that will not brook
The taunts of fools too saucy grown,
He that is rash to prove it, let him look
He kindle not a fire unknown.
Since first we flung our gauntlet to the skies
And dared the high Gods' will to bend,
A fire that still may burn deceit and lies
Burn and consume them to the end.