Robert Frost


Virtue is Virtue, writ in ink or blood. And Duty, Honour, Valour, are the same Whether they cheer the thundering steps of Fame Up echoing hills of Alma, or, more blest, Walk with her in that band where she is least Thro’ smiling plains and cities doing good. Yet, oh to sing them in their happier day! Yon glebe is not the hind whose manhood mends Its rudeness, yet it gains but while he spends, And mulcts him rude. Even that sinless Lord Whose feet wan Mary washed, went not His way Uncoloured by the Galilean field; And Honour, Duty, Valour, seldom wield With stainless hand the immedicable sword.

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