.ODIz.NTM2MzU

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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

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