The Illusion Of War

War         I abhor,         And yet how sweet         The sound along the marching street         Of drum and fife, and I forget         Wet eyes of widows, and forget         Broken old mothers, and the whole         Dark butchery without a soul.         Without a soul - save this bright drink         Of heady music, sweet as hell;         And even my peace-abiding feet         Go marching with the marching street,         For yonder, yonder goes the fife,         And what care I for human life!         The tears fill my astonished eyes         And my full heart is like to break,         And yet 'tis all embannered lies,         A dream those little drummers make.         O it is wickedness to clothe         Yon hideous grinning thing that stalks         Hidden in music, like a queen         That in a garden of glory walks,         Till good men love the thing they loathe.         Art, thou hast many infamies,         But not an infamy like this;         O snap the fife and still the drum,         And show the monster as she is.