They might have made an end of death And slept secure at morning's breath, Had they not stretched a dusty trail Along the desert, like a veil. Their very sword-blades are the same As they, respecting modest shame, And, as the foemen's blood they shed, Their cheeks display a comely red. Does stubborn enemy suppose Their spears are little fingers? Those Same lances soon are fashioning Each froward heart into a ring. And of their swords they forge a crown To press the foemen's temples down Who, halting in their tracks, express Involuntary thankfulness. Did they not fear the guest might stray Who through the darkness feels his way Toward their tents, they would bestow The very stars, and dawn aglow. |