THE WAR THAT NEVER ENDS
If, at last the sword is sheathed,And men, exhausted, call it peace,Old Nature wears no olive wreath,The weapons change—war does not cease.
The little struggling blades of grassThat lift their heads and will not die,The vines that climb where sunbeams pass,And fight their way toward the sky!
And every soul that God has made,Who from despair their lives defendAnd struggling upward through the shade,Break every bond...
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