Classic Poem

God says that I may send thee, sweet, my sword. —
Its use is nearly over, — let the hilt
Be held once in thy white hand if thou wilt; —
That touch will be its owner's high reward.
Black-stained it is with blood of foemen spilt,
Dinted and jagged, and snapped anigh the point,
And all the tassel is of rusted gilt;
The scabbard gapes with wear at every joint.

I shall not need it more. The highest gift
That I can give, it is; the tenderest too.
No more in battle shall it glitter swift,
And, after, streak its sheath with crimson dew.
The sword is dead and victor, — as am I:
Take thou the weary steel, and put it by.