SIR JOHN RIMBECK TO THE PRINCESS OF ACRE
Death comes like a glimpse of thin blue sky through the fog of fight,
And the trident-flame of the mind fails, and the soul drinks night.
But on shores unknown it arises! it is white of its ancient scars.
Arrayed with stars as a garment, beneath night’s thick stars!
And now I must have died I think—and had this grace,
To look with new eyes for a moment, and to see one face
That fills my heart like a feasting where mailed kings break bread,
You are kind as a poor man’s alms, Lord, if I take this to the dead!
Slowly the lights, the noise return, but they touch not me.
I, who knew not my chains at all, stand here free!
Sound the assay, white bugles! Shields, clash loud!
Fate and one face I follow, through a gate grown proud!