I never see soldiers marching to music,
But I hear the sickening din of the battle,
And I think of the grim stark terrors of warfare.
I never see children play in the sunlight,
But I think of how much they will have to suffer
For they know not what is awaiting them in the future.
I never see lovers sitting together happy,
But I think of the anguish that comes with loving —
The waiting, the fear, the hope, the longing, the heartache.
I never see youth walking before me radiant,
But I picture the hour when the smile and the light will have faded,
When the strength and the glow of the body will have passed into nothingness.

I never see the city flaming with banners
Flaunting its color and movement and magic —
Its marvellous splendour awful, tumultuous,
But it seems like a puppet-show, lurid and gaudy,
And I think of the spaces of still country meadows,
Where birds are soaring into the ether,
And beauty is more real than a shadow, and God is far more than a name is!
I never see April spreading her nimbus of azure
O'er mountain and valley and quickening the earth with her glory,
But I think of the autumn and winds that are chilling and fearless
And of snows that come bruising the faces of flowers.

It is strange none who pass in the bright-colored pageant
Called Life are in any way fearful;
And not one is afraid; not the soldier who walks to the bugle,
Not the child as he laughs and plays in the sunlight,
Not the lover awaiting his sweetheart's caresses,
Not the youth who is facing the future undaunted,
Not the dweller of cities barbaric and splendid,
Not the flowers of April that crimson the meadows,
For none know as I know who stand watching it pass me —
Life the great spectacle, piteous, ruthless.