The Armistice

WHEN from a mighty storm far out at sea
Roll in the glassy and gigantic waves,—
Wreck-laden Tritons, bearing in their arms
The wastage of a world;—and o'er the scene
Rises the sun-god; and along the shore
People with uplift eyes await the fleet,
Or falling on their knees, stretch up their hands
To the restored serenity of heaven,
For in their hearts the storm is running still;
So we await our warships on the flood,
Brimming with laureled legions and the gleam
Of gun and helmet, and the tattered flags
That tinge the sea with crimson, telling of those
Left sleeping on the battlefields of France,
Or on the piney ridges of Lorraine
Holding the steeps for freedom. Shall we not
Take to our hearts the living and the dead
In one long, proud embrace upon the shore?