Beauty was born of the world's desire 
For the wandering water, the wandering fire. 
Under the arch of her hurrying feet 
She has trodden a world full of bittersweet. 

The blood of the violet is in her veins, 
Her pulse has the passion of April rains. 
Out of the heart of a satin flower 
God made her eyelids in one sweet hour. 

Out of the wind He made her feet 
That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet. 
Out of a cloud He wove her hair 
Heavy and black with the rain held there. 

What is her name? There's none that knows— 
Mother-o'-mischief, or Mouth-o'-rose. 
What is her pathway? None may tell. 
But it climbs to heaven and it dips to hell. 

The garment on her is mist and fire, 
Anger and sorrow and heart's desire. 
Her forehead-jewel's an amethyst, 
The garland to her is love-in-a-mist. 

Her girdle is of the beryl-stone, 
And one dark rose for her flower has grown,
Filled to the brim with the strength o' the sun, 
A passionate rose, and only one. 

The bird in her breast sings all day long 
A wonderful, wistful, whispering song: 
The song that is of all passing things,
None knows it — wingless or born with wings. 

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son.
Do not weep.
War is kind.