28
Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like
thee;
And (if to thee the stars yield victory)
Tempering their hate of the great foe, that hurled
Vainly her strength against the conscience of the
world,
Though all their dead be countless as the stars,
And all the living bitter as the sea.
I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and saw
The stars again and all their place again.
The moving mist had gone, and shining still
The moon went high and pale above the hill.
Not now those lights were trembling in the vast
Ways of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth;
Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod
hours passed.
And with less fear (not with less awe,
Remembering, England, all the blood and pain),
How look, I cried, ye stern and solitary stars
On these disastrous wars!
