(We can succeed only by concert. . . . The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new so we must think anew and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves. . . . December 1, 1862. The President’s Message to Congress.)
Be sad, be cool, be kind,
 remembering those now dreamdust
 hallowed in the ruts and gullies,
 solemn bones under the smooth blue sea,
 faces warblown in a falling rain.
 Be a brother, if so can be,
 to those beyond battle fatigue
 each in his own corner of earth
   or forty fathoms undersea
   beyond all boom of guns,
   beyond any bong of a great bell,
   each with a bosom and number,
   each with a pack of secrets,
 each with a personal dream and doorway
 and over them now the long endless winds
   the hush and sleep murmur of time.
 Make your wit a guard and cover.
 Sing low, sing high, sing wide.
 Let your laughter come free
 remembering looking toward peace:
 “We must disenthrall ourselves.”
 Be a brother, if so can be,
 to those thrown forward
 for taking hardwon lines,
 for holding hardwon points
   and their reward so-so,
 little they care to talk about,
 their pay held in a mute calm,
 highspot memories going unspoken,
 what they did being past words,
 what they took being hardwon.
   Be sad, be kind, be cool.
    Weep if you must
   And weep open and shameless
    before these altars.
 There are wounds past words.
 There are cripples less broken
 than many who walk whole.
   There are dead youths
   with wrists of silence
   who keep a vast music
   under their shut lips,
 what they did being past words,
 their dreams like their deaths
 beyond any smooth and easy telling,
 having given till no more to give.
   There is dust alive
 with dreams of The Republic,
 with dreams of the family of Man
 flung wide on a shrinking globe
   with old timetables,
   old maps, old guide-posts
   torn into shreds,
  shot into tatters
  burnt in a firewind,
   lost in the shambles,
   faded in rubble and ashes.
   There is dust alive.
 Out of a granite tomb,
 Out of a bronze sarcophagus,
 Loose from the stone and copper
 Steps a whitesmoke ghost
 Lifting an authoritative hand
 In the name of dreams worth dying for,
 In the name of men whose dust breathes
   of those dreams so worth dying for,
 what they did being past words,
 beyond all smooth and easy telling.
 Be sad, be kind, be cool,
 remembering, under god, a dreamdust
 hallowed in the ruts and gullies,
 solemn bones under the smooth blue sea,
 faces warblown in a falling rain.
 Sing low, sing high, sing wide.
 Make your wit a guard and cover.
 Let your laughter come free
 like a help and a brace of comfort.
   The earth laughs, the sun laughs
 over every wise harvest of man,
 over man looking toward peace
 by the light of the hard old teaching:
   “We must disenthrall ourselves.”





















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