I see you sitting in the sungleams there,
Scabbard on arm, the mighty blade withdrawn,
Musing a little. Dreams of customs gone
People your mood—old loves, old quests to dare;
The sword so doubly tempered to its wont
Of battle, keen to be swift smiting through
Dark arms, you fondle almost as if you
Had borne it shouting in the fight's red front.
All this upon a quiet afternoon
Of golden sun in Canada. The years
Are but a curtain that you brush aside.
This hour you hear the ancient battle rune
In gleaming glens, and to your sight appears
Old war and all its honour and high pride.