The Hosts

A poem by Alan Seeger (1888-1916)

Purged, with the life they left, of all

That makes life paltry and mean and small,

In their new dedication charged

With something heightened, enriched, enlarged,

That lends a light to their lusty brows

And a song to the rhythm of their tramping feet,

These are the men that have taken vows,

These are the hardy, the flower, the elite, —

These are the men that are moved no more

By the will to traffic and grasp and store

And ring with pleasure and wealth and love

The circles that self is the center of;

But they are moved by the powers that force

The sea forever to ebb and rise,

That hold Arcturus in his course,

And marshal at noon in tropic skies

The clouds that tower on some snow-capped chain

And drift out over the peopled plain.

They are big with the beauty of cosmic things.

Mark how their columns surge! They seem

To follow the goddess with outspread wings

That points toward Glory, the soldier’s dream.

With bayonets bare and flags unfurled,

They scale the summits of the world

And fade on the farthest golden height

In fair horizons full of light.

Comrades in arms there — friend or foe —

That trod the perilous, toilsome trail

Through a world of ruin and blood and woe

In the years of the great decision — hail!

Friend or foe, it shall matter nought;

This only matters, in fine: we fought.

For we were young and in love or strife

Sought exultation and craved excess:

To sound the wildest debauch in life

We staked our youth and its loveliness.

Let idlers argue the right and wrong

And weigh what merit our causes had.

Putting our faith in being strong —

Above the level of good and bad —

For us, we battled and burned and killed

Because evolving Nature willed,

And it was our pride and boast to be

The instruments of Destiny.

There was a stately drama writ

By the hand that peopled the earth and air

And set the stars in the infinite

And made night gorgeous and morning fair,

And all that had sense to reason knew

That bloody drama must be gone through.

Some sat and watched how the action veered —

Waited, profited, trembled, cheered —

We saw not clearly nor understood,

But yielding ourselves to the masterhand,

Each in his part as best he could,

We played it through as the author planned.

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Poems in English 

• When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• When I read the Book. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• When I peruse the Conquer’d Fame. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• When I heard at the Close of the Day. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• What think You I take my Pen in Hand? by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• What Place is Besieged? by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• What General has a Good Army. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• What Best I See In Thee. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• What am I, After All? by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• We Two—How Long We were Fool’d. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• We Two Boys Together Clinging. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Visor’d. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Turn, O Libertad. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• To You. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• To Thee, Old Cause! by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• To the Garden the World. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• To One Shortly to Die. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• To Him that was Crucified. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman

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