And, settling well his harp upon his back,
With something of amusement in his mouth,
Tristram rode southward to the Breton ships.
SIR JOHN RIMBECK TO THE PRINCESS OF ACRE
Death comes like a glimpse of thin blue sky through the fog of fight,
And the trident-flame of the mind fails, and the soul drinks night.
But on shores unknown it arises! it is white of its ancient scars.
Arrayed with stars as a garment, beneath night’s thick stars!
And now I must have died I think—and had this grace,
To look with new eyes for a moment, and to see one face