NOVEMBER 11, 1918.

Our country, O America, thy sons
Marching to hold an alien land in gage
Conjure thee, hold no revels on the stage
Of tragedy. Mock not the dead. The guns
Are still, the world's pain cries the louder. Now
That fruit of time that raged so to the birth
Comes to delivery, and the wracked earth
Faints, and the lingering dead pause to mark how
The thoughts of many hearts shall be revealed,
Jealous of all their blood-bought testament.
The world's an amphitheatre; Versailles
'Twixt quick and dead dictates a century.
Shall New York flaunt while London's chimes are pealed?
Hold revelry while Paris keeps a Lent?