Far better didst thou hear instead
Czar Peter’s hundred cannon roar
In line at Pultava once more.
When pale thou walkest in the heat,
With drooping limbs and stumbling feet,
Lean, Axel, on thy sword alone,
Not on that arm beside thine own,
Which Love hath formed so round and fair
That he might make his pillow there.
O Love! all miracles in one!