THE BRINK OF BATTLE
What is it that arms them? Is it sorrow
Or remorse has made their shafts so keen?
Have their arrows drunk of foil’d ambition’s
Bitter poison? Or hath mad doubt been
Forger of their weapons? Neither; only
This same quiet, plain accustom’d scene.
Just these four red walls, this closed quadrangle!
Nothing lovely in it, saving peace,
Save security, and unstorm’d shelter.
O harsh world, O pain that cannot cease,
Even ere your fetters fasten round me,
Cries my captive heart: “Release! Release!”
Cries, and sickens with a desperate longing,
Even now, in thought of what will be,
For this vision of pure calm untroubled.
Eyes of mine! look, drink it in, O see
Everything, miss nothing! This may solace
(Who knows?) days and nights of misery.
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