Sword thrust and bayonet
In his young heart’s-blood met,
The groan died in his lips hard set,
And through his eyes shone life’s regret.
O’er his torn and bleeding breast
All the storm of battle pressed,—
He lay lowly with the rest.
When the bitter fight was done
There they found their little one,
Stark and staring at the sun.
Freedom, let thy banners wave,
Where he lies among the brave,
For that young fresh life he gave!
Song above the names that die
Shrine his name in memory!
IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL.
Through yonder windows stained and old,
Four level rays of red and gold
Strike down the twilight dim,
Four lifted heads are aureoled
Of the sculptured cherubim,
And soft like sounds on faint winds blown
Of voices dying far away,
The organ’s dreamy undertone,
The murmur while they pray;
And I sit here alone, alone,
And have no word to say;
Cling closer shadows, darker yet,
And heart be happy to forget.
And now, the mystic silence—and they kneel,
A young priest lifts a star of gold,—
And then the sudden organ peal!
Ave and Ave! and the music rolled
Along the carven wonder of the choir,
Thrilled canopy and spire,
Up till the echoes mingled with the song;
And now a boy’s flute note that rings
Shrill sweet and long,
Ave and Ave, louder and more loud,
Rises the strain he sings,
Upon the angel’s wings!
Right up to God!
And you that sit there in the lowliest place,
With lips that hardly dare to move;
You with the old sad furrowed face,
Dream on your dream of love!
For you, glide down the music’s swell
The folding arms of peace,
For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell
Desires that never cease.
For you the calm, the angel’s breast,
Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;
For me the beat of broken wings,
The old unanswered questionings.