There are not even mounds, any more, where they lie, The men who warred to wipe out war, under a stricken sky; Nor is there any remembrance, or mark that I can see In my heart, or your heart, as great as their victory. If in our folly we shall fail to take the gift they gave us— If in our blindness we shall breach the wall they built to save us— Theirs no less is the victory, who sleep in honor sweet, And ours the retribution, deserved of our defeat. |