Once where I lay in darkness after fight,
Sore smitten, thrilled a little thread of song
Searching and searching all my muffled sense
Until it shook sweet pangs through all my blood,
And I beheld one globed in ghostly fire
Singing, star-strong, her golden canticle;
And her mouth sang, “The hosts of Hate roll past,
A dance of dust-motes in the sliding sun;
Love’s battle comes on the wide wings of storm,
From east to west one legion! Wilt thou strive?”