Classic Poem

Be this thing written, e'er I write
The record of the Evil time:
That day my soul repented not
One idle hour, one braggart rhyme.

The grass brought up its million spears
Aye—for the honour of our star,
Write that no thorn or thistledown,
Failed me when I went forth to War.

Old tunes of revelry and sport
Danced on my deafening drums of fight
The hoarded sunlight of spring days
Blazed for my beacon all the night

After, the days were grey and long
But for that hour Life battled well,
And all the Trumpets of her tower
Answered the horns of Azrael

We fought, although our dearest fell—
We stood, although the planets reeled—
No sullen doubts, no empty days
Can wipe that blazon from our shield.

And yet—to me, doubtless to me—
The miracle of time shall come
My thoughts grow light as thistledown
Once more: but after years in sum

God keep some mark upon my brow
Though song be loud, though wine be red,
Of one who met Man's oldest foe
And did not faint till he had fled.