War is destructive, wasteful, brutal, yet
    The energies of men are brought to play,
And hidden valor by occasion met
    Leaps to the light, as precious jewels may
When earthquakes rend the rock. The stress and strain
    Of war stirs men to do their worst and best.
Heroes are forged on anvils hot with pain
    And splendid courage comes but with the test
Some natures ripen and some virtues bloom
    Only in blood-red soil; some souls prove great
Only in moments dark with death or doom.
    This is the sad historic jest which fate
Flings to the world, recurring time on time.
Many must fall that one may seem sublime.


Above the chaos of impending ills,
    Through all the clamor of insistent strife,
Now while the noise of warring nations fills
    Each throbbing hour with menaces to life,
I hear the voice of Progress! Strange indeed
    The shadowed pathways that lead up to light.
But as a runner sometimes will recede
    That he may so accumulate his might,
Then with a will that needs must be obeyed
    Rushes resistless to the goal with ease,
So the whole world seems now to retrograde,
    Slips back to war, that it may speed to peace.
And in that backward step in gathers force
For the triumphant finish of its course.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.

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