Classic Poem

And, after battle, tenderer is the breeze,
More bountiful the beauty of the night, —
New stars within the abysmal blue shine bright,
And balmier odours fill the forest-trees,
And yet more silvery moonlight floods the seas,
And woman's breast is more exceeding white:
More heavenly is the touch of finger light,
And more divine the most strange sense of ease.

Oh, wind the wreath of battle round thy brow,
Thou lover-warrior! Then shalt thou learn how
The kiss of woman may be God's own calm
Descending with a softness past all speech
Thy blood-stained hopeless lifeless lips to reach;
Sweeter than crown of gold, or wand of palm.