Yet⁠—look at the face again⁠—look at it well⁠— This man was not repose, this man was act. This man who murmured “It is well that war Should be so terrible, if it were not We might become too fond of it⁠—” and showed Himself, for once, completely as he lived In the laconic balance of that phrase; This man could reason, but he was a fighter, Skillful in every weapon of defence But never defending when he could assault, Taking enormous risks again and again, Never retreating while he still could strike, Dividing a weak force on dangerous ground And joining it again to beat a strong, Mocking at chance and all the odds of war With acts that looked like hairbreadth recklessness —We do not call them reckless, since they won. We do not see him reckless for the calm Proportion that controlled the recklessness⁠— But that attacking quality was there. He was not mild with life or drugged with justice, He gripped life like a wrestler with a bull, Impetuously. It did not come to him While he stood waiting in a famous cloud,