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T H E WOR L D | 15 It is ill to fight and find no grave But a prison-cell; To keep alive, yet live a slave— Praise those who fell! But worst of all are those who stand With arms laid by, Bannerless, helpless, no command, No battle-cry. They live to save unvalued breath, With lowered eyes; In place of victory, or death,— A compromise! Part of the Battle There is a moment when with splendid joy, With flashing blade and roar of thundering guns And colors waving wide where triumph stands, The last redoubt is carried; we have won! This is the battle! We have conquered now! But the long hours of marching in the sun, The longer hours of waiting in the dark, Deadly dishonored work of hidden spy, The dull details of commissariat, Food, clothing, medicine, the hospital, The way the transportation mules are fed,— These are the battle too, and victory’s price. And we, in days when no attack is feared And none is hoped,—no sudden courage called,— Should strengthen our intrenchments quietly, Review the forces, exercise the troops, Feeling the while, not “When will battle come?” But, “This is battle! We are conquering now!” Step Faster, Please Of all most aggravating things, If you are hot in haste, Is to have a man in front of you With half a day to waste. There is this one thing that justifies The man in the foremost place: The fact that he is the man in front, The leader of the race. 16 | In This Our World But, for Heaven’s sake, if you are ahead, Don’t dawdle at your ease! You set the pace for the man behind; Step faster, please! A New Year’s Reminder Better have a tender conscience for the record of your house, And your own share in the work which they have done, Though your private conscience aches With your personal mistakes, And you don’t amount to very much alone, Than to be yourself as spotless as a baby one year old, Your domestic habits wholly free from blame, While the company you stand with Is a thing to curse a land with, And your public life is undiluted shame. For the deeds men do together are what saves the world to-day By our common public work we stand or fall— And your fraction of the sin Of the office you are in Is the sin that’s going to damn you, after all! Out of Place Cell, poor little cell, Distended with pain, Torn with the pressure Of currents of effort Resisted in vain; Feeling sweep by you The stream of nutrition, Unable to take; Crushed flat and inactive, While shudder across you Great forces that wake; Alone—while far voices Across all the shouting Call you to your own; Held fast, fastened close, Surrounded, enveloped, How you starve there alone! Cell, poor little cell, Let the pain pass—don’t hold it! Let the effort pass through you! Let go! And give way! ...

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