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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?