His brow is seamed with line and scar; His cheek is red and dark as wine; The fires as of a Northern star Beneath his cap of sable shine. His right hand, bared of leathern glove, Hangs open like an iron gin, You stoop to see his pulses move, To hear the blood sweep out and in. He looks some king, so solitary In earnest thought he seems to stand, As if across a lonely sea He gazed impatient of the land. Out of the noisy centuries The foolish and the fearful fade; Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes, Time hath not dimmed nor death dismayed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LANDSCAPES (FOR CLEMENT R. WOOD) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER FOR LAUREL AND HARDY ON MY WORKROOM WALL by DAVID WAGONER A SPIRITUAL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE CHOIRMASTER'S BURIAL by THOMAS HARDY PSALM 49 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE NEXT MORNING by HENRY CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL |