The stainless soldiers dressed with white
to Wars they marched or rode
(for Us): Such clean, wholesome delight
to watch their passing on The Road
What matters that a death of mud
is waiting in their path?
All is scrubbed clean, & best--their blood,
in any history's bath
(a general Peace afterwards seen
to cover all the battlefields
with sylvantine demean)
their vicious scars thus healed
the stainless soldiers hurry Home
to rescue us from Filthy Toils
or furnish The Ancestral (Tomb)
with their any clean-won despoils
O, do not marvel World is made
of Flesh immaculate--deepen & fade:
Mind much too vainly tries to wield
Th'Passing waves that Time's tides build:
Ye stainless soldiers: ride the Crest!
(And fall to Lowly Waste at last
only after The Levelled Rest
your Moment's Wave surpassed.)