THE STIRRUP CUP
DRAW rein; there’s the inn where the lamps show plain—
Where we never may drink together again.
While the stars are lost in the slate-cold sky
Let us drink good ale before we die
In the wind and bitter rain!
Your sword is made ready upon your hip?
Then once again, man, in good-fellowship!
Though hunted and outlawed and fugitive
We shall drink together again if we live—
Set the tankard to your lip!
Honour and death and—how goes the tune?
See the clouds rift and disrobe the moon!
And a blood-red streak in the sullen skies
And—Honour and death and adventure’s eyes—
Now spurs—for they’ll be here soon!
THE ENSIGN
HIGH up above the wooded ridge
Beams out a round benignant moon
Upon the village and the bridge
Through which the slumberous waters croon.
Now polished silver is the mill;
And, clad in ghostly mysteries,
The church tower glimmers on the hill
Among the sad, abiding trees;
And watched by its familiar star
Sleeps each small house, so still and white—
From all the noise and blood of war,
O God, how far removed to-night!
Unconscious of their destiny
How many drew this air for breath;
Here lived and loved ... and now they see
The terrible, swift shape of death.