Classic Poem

O BITTER wind toward the sunset blowing,
—What of the dales to-night?
In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing,
—What ring of festal light?

“In the great window as the day was dwindling
—I saw an old man stand;
His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling,
—But the list shook in his hand.”

O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered,
—No sound of joy or wail?
“‘A great fight and a good death,’ he muttered;
—‘Trust him, he would not fail.’ ”

What of the chamber dark where she was lying
—For whom all life is done?
“Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying
—‘My son, my little son.’ ”