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<h2> The Song of the Pacifist </h2>
<p>What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?<br/>
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?<br/>
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?<br/>
<br/>
If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;<br/>
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:<br/>
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!<br/>
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If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;<br/>
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;<br/>
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;<br/>
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If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,<br/>
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .<br/>
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.<br/>
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Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:<br/>
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;<br/>
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.<br/>
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Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release<br/>
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,<br/>
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice,<br/>
we clamour that War shall cease.<br/>
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Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;<br/>
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:<br/>
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.<br/>
<br/>
When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;<br/>
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea<br/>
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . <i>THAT WILL BE VICTORY.</i><br/></p>
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