We are a pale generation

With willow-withe spines

And anemic blood

Needing the transfusion of courage.

We are the "God's in His Heaven" people

Who linger in the miraged oasis

Rather than ride the imperiled

With the black-cowled horseman of doom to ask:

"What has become of the hot,

Red blood of your sires

With the unbending straightness of pines

Who answered to the challenge-call

Of the conquering lion

Rather than to the soft purring

Of the Machiavellian?"