Oh, this inexorable mind without expression
Driving me through certain hope to utter black depression
For which there is no word
But the caging of a bird:

While there are the living
Who know the art is giving
There is no mistaking
Hands are made for making.

Flowers for the living from a Hero's grave arising!
Oh, will we learn, and when.
To think and act as men?

While our hands are taking
Where is the awaking?