Classic Poem

THOMAS MIDDLETON

A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud,
 That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath,
 Hell's children revel along the shuddering heath
With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud:
A worse fair face than witchcraft's, passion-proud,
 With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath
 And lips that bade the assassin's sword find sheath
Deep in the heart whereto love's heart was vowed:
A game of close contentious crafts and creeds
 Played till white England bring black Spain to shame:
A son's bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds
 High conscience lights for mother's love and fame
Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds:
 Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name.