For each now knew this was the end,
And one of them must die,
Then Jacob heaved a mighty breath,
With a last great sobbing cry,
And gripped that other in a grip
Like the grip of those who die.
For he felt once more his spirit faint,
And his strong knees quake beneath,
And it seemed the mountains flamed all red
At the coming of his breath;
And he prayed if he were conquered now
That this might be his death.
The tight grip eased, the huge form slipped
Back earthward with a moan,
And Jacob stood there ’neath the dawn,
Like one new-changed to stone;
For in the face of the prone man there
He read his very own.
Not as man sees who reads his fellows
In the dim crowds that pass:
Nor as a soul may know himself,
Who looks within a glass:—
But as God sees, who kneads the clay,
And parts it from the mass.
And over his head the great day rose
And gloried leaf and wing,
And the little boughs began to tremble,
And the little birds to sing;
But on his face there shone a strength
Like the power of a new-crowned king.
Afterglow
After the clangor of battle,
There comes a moment of rest,
And the simple hopes and the simple joys
And the simple thoughts are best.
After the victor’s pæan,
After the thunder of gun,
There comes a lull that must come to all
Before the set of the sun.