I SING the song of the great clean guns that belch forth death at will. Ah, but the wailing mothers, the lifeless forms and still! I sing the song of the billowing flags, the bugles that cry before. Ah, but the skeletons flapping rags, the lips that speak no more! I sing the clash of bayonets and sabers that flash and cleave. And wilt thou sing the maimed ones, too, that go with pinned-up sleeve? I sing acclaimèd generals that bring the victory home. Ah, but the broken bodies that drip like honeycomb! I sing of hosts triumphant, long ranks of marching men. And wilt thou sing the shadowy hosts that never march again? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |