A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud, That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath. Hell's children revel along the shuddering heath With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud: A worse fair face than witchcraft's, passion-proud, With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath And lips that bade the assassin's sword find sheath Deep in the heart whereto love's heart was vowed: A game of close contentious crafts and creeds Played till white England bring black Spain to shame: A son's bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds High conscience lights for mother's love and fame: Pure gypsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds: Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG TOURNAMENT: NEW STYLE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER DOT LONG-HANDLED DIPPER by CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN OF CHARTRES by HENRY BROOKS ADAMS BATUSCHKA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH WHEN DEATH HAS LOST THE KEY by KENNETH SLADE ALLING A DESCRIPTION OF LONDON by JOHN BANCKS THE MAID'S TRAGEDY by FRANCIS BEAUMONT |