.ODIz.NTM2MzU
Is it so strange that, brooding here
Over the grace of your tender words,
Straight from the golden atmosphere
The blare of bugles, clangon of swords,
And all the thunder and noise of strife,
Should fade in a glorious mist - and I
Stand in a tremulous hush of life,
Content to stand so until I die?
Behold! My spirit is all athirst
To utter the incorruptible name
With which I have crowned you, and from the first
Borne like a luminous oriflamme
Over the waving banners of war. -
Shall it be spoken; or only be
A dumb joy standing with lips a-jar
Held by a vision thou canst not see?
Richard Realf