Ii

There where the moon hangs sinister, o'er parched And haggard thorns,--a golden battle-bow, Or shield of bronze, old wars have scarred and scorched,-- What crime hath cursed it ... who shall ever know?-- Night only! Night, with flickering flame, who torched That moment when blood branded black its sod, And in the pool a ghastly face sank slow Beneath the storm and rushing fire of God.