...is Mary Gilmore, who never started any wars that I know of, though I think she did go off to Paraguay with those utopian colonists for a while. This is the only poem of hers that I can remember - I will not look it up, but just write it down as I remember it, so you can have the fun of correcting me:
I have grown past hate and bitterness
I see the world as one
But though I can no longer hate
My son is still my son
All men at God's round table sit
And all men must be fed
But this loaf, in my hand
This loaf is my son's bread
I thought of this poem immediately when I read Marco's post a while back about how his emotional involvement with deaths of the very old and young is limited to those people he has known personally. Unfortnately, my attempt to expand and clarify this connection collapsed in a tangle of non sequiturs. I may try again later.
Anyway, to continue my penitential theme, here is a link I found to Ambrose Bierce's enchanting short story, Chickamauga. It is only very short. You should read it, if you haven't already.