Classic Poem

FIRST ARROW

Thy billet, brother?

SECOND ARROW

To cleanse the stain
From a soldier's honor.
But one month wed,
His ring upon her,
By night and alone,
False and fain,
She stole to another.
So am I sped
His wrong to atone.
But what is thine errant?

FIRST ARROW

O piteous warrant!
The fondest of lovers,
O'ersea returning,
His lady discovers,
For him still yearning,
By kindred constrained,
The pawn of their pride,
A warrior's bride.
What refuge remained?
For her bosom but me;
For his own the sword.

BOTH

Alas for the word!
O wretched we!
In the same white breast
Together we rest
Wet with her blood.
O had we never
Been hewn from the wood!
Had we slept in the quiver!
Weird woeful to dree!
And all for the dross
Of gold and a name.
O pitiless flame!
O infinite loss!
Thou, Love, on thy throne,
Canst thou guard not thine own?