The House of War

By George Sterling

Whose heart is fed on vision, and whose mind
    With portent of a Golden Age to be?
    Let him look forth on Europe and the sea,
As eagles of destruction ride the wind;
But higher must his soul ascend to find
    What star of peace the future may decree:
    Her ray is deep in night's infinity,
And men deny her, and the heavens are blind.

Seek not her pathway where the airship flies
And Death hath station on the nearer skies,
    Smiling on empires that his feet have trod,
        Where shone the sword and now the cannon shines,
        As the slow Fates, from gulfs without a God,
Swing up the sun of murder on the Signs.

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