Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes; <br />Thy lovely things must all be laid away; <br />And thou, as others, must face the riven day <br />Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums <br />Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbs <br />The sense of being, the sick soul doth sway, <br />Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may say <br />Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs <br />Of praise the little versemen joyed to take <br />Shall be forgotten; then they must know we are, <br />For all our skill in words, equal in might <br />And strong of mettle as those we honoured. Make <br />The name of poet terrible in just war, <br />And like a crown of honour upon the fight.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-poet-before-battle/
