And irrigate it with perpetual streams;
A meadow where the sportive insects hum,
Like listless topers singing o'er their cups,
And ply their forelegs like a man who tries
With maimed hands to use the flint and steel.
The Battle
There where the horsemen rode strongest
I rode out in front of them,
Hurled forth my battle-shout and charged them;
No man thought blame of me.