And veil thine eyes with all thy shadowy hair.
Now let them bind us with what cords they will,
The spirit moves unbound, triumphant, free,
Not through the Loire, but through a vaster stream!
Oh, it is something dimly great to die!
And then to die together, is’t not sweet?
And not through illness, age, decrepitude,
But the armed man is ready for new wars.
And thou—
Yvette