Monday, September 17, 2012


You shrank not, when the final horn was heard;
You let your blood run freely as spilt wine,
And, listening for the chorus, missed a word
So blasphemous it might have been divine.

The heroes are all dead, and in their wake
A tremor sweeps across the dusty earth.
Was it their drums?  Or does this grey globe shake
In some strange, silent paroxysm of mirth?

Heroic soul, ride silent and alone;
Stand before all the powers of night and hell,
And wonder, sudden, whether the silent moon
Grins at a heavenly paradox as well.

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