The destined bullet wounded him,
They brought him down to die,
Far-off a bugle sounded him
“Retreat,” Good-bye.
Strange, that from ways so hated,
And tyranny so hard
Should come this strangely fated
And farewell word.
He thought, “Some Old Sweat might
Have thrilled at heart to hear,
Gone down into the night
Too proud to fear!
But I—the fool at arms,
Musician, poet to boot,
Who hail release; what charms
In this salute?”
He smiled—“The latest jest
That time on me shall play.”
And watched the dying west,
Went out with the day.
PRAISE
O friends of mine, if men mock at my name,
Say “Children loved him.”
Since by that word you will have far removed him
From any bitter shame.
WINTER BEAUTY
I cannot live with Beauty out of mind;
I seek her and desire her all the day,
Being the chiefest treasure man may find,
And word most sweet his eager lips can say.
She is as strong on me as though I wandered
In Severn meadows some blue riotous day.
But since the trees have long since lost their green,
And I, an exile, can but dream of things
Grown magic in the mind, I watch the sheen
Of frost and hear the song Orion sings,
And hear the star-born passion of Beethoven;
Man’s consolations sung on the quivering strings.