HAPPY
99
xi.
Foul! foul! the word was yours not mine, I worship that right hand
Which fell’d the foes before you as the woodman fells the wood,
And sway’d the sword that lighten’d back the sun of Holy land,
And clove the Moslem crescent moon, and changed it into blood.
Foul! foul! the word was yours not mine, I worship that right hand
Which fell’d the foes before you as the woodman fells the wood,
And sway’d the sword that lighten’d back the sun of Holy land,
And clove the Moslem crescent moon, and changed it into blood.
xii.
And once I worshipt all too well this creature of decay,
For Age will chink the face, and Death will freeze the supplest limbs—
Yet you in your mid manhood—O the grief when yesterday
And once I worshipt all too well this creature of decay,
For Age will chink the face, and Death will freeze the supplest limbs—
Yet you in your mid manhood—O the grief when yesterday
