Those waves who crash lightly 

Are but storms with no force 

And the braves who fall nightly 

Are the roads with no course. 

Some yet words with no sound 

Can be coveted dear 

For the tellers surround 

And paint walls for the ear  

And the armies will fall

For they haven't a chance 

For the bludgeoning call 

Is but some child's lance 

And the wars will not cease

For there cannot be end 

From it's embers in Greece 

To the Romans they send

So they fall to their knees 

And they pray to a god 

But each one of their pleas

Is unanswerably broad

So their pens are salvation 

Their thoughts can redeem 

And their minds build foundation

Of which no god could dream.