Tabula Non Rasa

A steadfast one was who
he dared himself to dream to be,
with flame-kept strength
unobscured by some sad, sick shadow;

And should he grow and live to see
the war-blood overboil'd,
spilt and steaming,
a one who'd not,
despite the quaked-quick,
sit still and timorous,
but would calm
and stir by turns
his curdled courage-
rise and fight and die
if might and cunning
had he not enough...

So did our child-Charlie's
Teutonic roots grab his
immature imagination;
so much and enough
for the over-trite
3rd grade composition of
the dreary dirge his widowed wife
would sobbingly sing while
his battle-broke bones were
inspiringly interred in
his Burgs best bulwark.