XIII
And now, go forward, Normandy,
Go forward all in one.
The press was caught and trampled and it broke
From the sword and its swinger and the axe’s stroke,
Pouring through the gap in a whirl of smoke
As a blinded herd will run.
And so fled many and a very few
With mounts all spent would staggering pursue,
But the race fell scattered as the evening grew:
The battle was over and done.
. . . . . .
Like birds against the reddening day
They dwindled one by one,
And I heard a trumpet far away
At the setting of the sun.
. . . . . .