Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory files above
Great is the battle-god, great, and his
A field where a thousand corpses lie.