31
And thirty miles to Westward, the grey cloud
Flushed into answering pink. Long shadows streamed
From every hill, and the low hanging shroud
Of mist along the valleys broke and steamed
Gold-flecked to heaven. Far off the armour gleamed
Like glass upon the dead man’s back. But now
The sentinel ran forward, hand to brow,
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And staring. For between him and the sun