Fight on, old world, fight on!
Thou shalt awaken soon,
And all thy dreams be gone
To mate the moon.
The pale, haggard moon whose days of strife
Have long since grown cold;
The wan, floating moon,
Whose cargo once was gold.

I have lived to see that hour
When all my soul hath caught,
In her white fancy's cup,
Is dashed away as naught.
From this small camp of souls
To that great camp I go.
The large sword swings in each
When the winds blow.

I turn from the world of cares
To this old apple tree,
Whose fragile, fragrant wares
Are spread for the sun to see.
It breathes no different breath
At the cry of the gun:
It only knows of Death
When the day is done.

Yon sweet-voiced chapel bell
Sang once a luring song:
Sometimes I went to hear old men
Rage at the tide of wrong.
Red now are the chapel halls:
The large sword swings in each.
Soiled are the pure walls
By the vanity of speech.

At the first cry of the gun
They altered all their prayers.
Hate donned the vestry garb,
And Love walked down the stairs.
O sweeter grows the wind
That changeth not her creed.
So am I come out here
To join the cold sea-weed.

A black, old ship throws off
The cramping cloak of land;
And, naked, bids the sea
All her strong limbs command.
I sit here on this shore
And watch the clouds go by;
And wonder why men left for me
These pastures of the sky.