THE FOREST MOTHER
Athlon the king bade silence to his harps,
Which murmured for a little, and were mute.
Then, gazing shrewdly on his men-of-war,
Whose armor, scattered in the banquet-hall,
Cast back the lurching torch-light, hoarsely spake:
"Methinks where War drew bronze athwart your cheeks
Love hath sown lilies, and your sinews shrink,
Lax with the feast. And not with lutes and wine
Won ye my strongholds and the guarded hills.
Your horses please you not, but daintier steeds,
And strife of happy loins. So grow ye soft.
Wherefore, this month, when dawn beholds the moon
A ghost, I call your swords to cleaner war,
To peril, and high battle with its toils.
But lest ye think I chide unwitting, list!
I tell a happening of younger years.
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