A poem by John McCrae

Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong,
Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word,
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
Who winneth me must win me by the sword."

Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
That strong men battled for in savage hate,
Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her gate?

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