Tragedy

This, of all fates, would be the saddest end;

That that heroic fever, with its cry

From Children unto Mother, “Here am I!”

Should lose the very faith it would defend;

That the high soul through passion should descend

To work the evil it had willed must die.

If it won so, would that be victory,

That tragic close? Oh, hearken, foe or friend!

Love, the magician, and the wizard Hate,

Though one be like white fire and one dark flame,

Work the same miracle, and all are wrought

Into the image that they contemplate.

None ever hated in the world but came

To every baseness of the foe he fought.