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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