In the afternoon; through it the highway runs,
'Twixt copses of green hazel, very thick,
And underneath, with glimmering of suns,
The primroses are happy; the dews lick
The soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms,
Lest they should glitter; surely they will go
In a long thin line, watchful for alarms,
With all their carriages of booty; so,
Lay down my pennon in the grass: Lord God.
What have we lying here? will they be cold,
I wonder, being so bare, above the sod,
Instead of under? This was a knight too, fold
Lying on fold of ancient rusted mail;
No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs,
And see the quiet gleam of turquoise pale
Along the ceinture; but the long time blurs
Even the tinder of his coat to nought,
Except these scraps of leather; see how white
The skull is, loose within the coif! He fought
A good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite.
No armour on the legs too; strange in faith!
A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah!
This one is bigger, truly without scathe
His enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far;
That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now,
What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?'
Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow,
Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie,
Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small,
This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord,
These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall.
Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord?
Often, God help me! I remember when
I was a simple boy, fifteen years old,
The Jacquerie froze up the blood of men
With their fell deeds, not fit now to be told.
God help again! we enter'd Beauvais town,
Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boy
As I was then; we gentles cut them down,
These burners and defilers, with great joy.