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- Horror of gibbet and cord,
- Mowed us as sheaves for the grave,
- Mowed us down for the right.
- We do not grudge or repent.
- Freely to freedom we gave
- Pledges, till life should be spent.
- Statesman, what of the night? —
- The night will last me my time.
- The gold on a crown or a crime
- Looks well enough yet by the lamps.
- Have we not fingers to write,
- Lips to swear at a need?
- Then, when danger decamps,
- Bury the word with the deed.
- Exile, what of the night? —
- The tides and the hours run out,
- The seasons of death and of doubt,
- The night-watches bitter and sore.
- In the quicksands leftward and right
- My feet sink down under me;
- But I know the scents of the shore
- And the broad blown breaths of the sea.
- Captives, what of the night? —
- It rains outside overhead
- Always, a rain that is red,
- And our faces are soiled with the rain.
- Here in the season’s despite
- Day-time and night-time are one,
- Till the curse of the kings and the chain
- Break, and their toils be undone.
