God says that I may send thee, sweet, my sword.— Its use is nearly over,—let the hilt Be held once in thy white hand if thou wilt;— That touch will be its owner's high reward. Black-stained it is with blood of foemen spilt, Dinted and jagged, and snapped anigh the point, And all the tassel is of rusted gilt; The scabbard gapes with wear at every joint. I shall not need it more. The highest gift That I can give, it is; the tenderest too. No more in battle shall it glitter swift, And, after, streak its sheath with crimson dew. The sword is dead and victor,—as am I: Take thou the weary steel, and put it by. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IDYLL 1. LAMENT FOR ADONIS by BION MOONLIT APPLES by JOHN DRINKWATER SPRING by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE REVENGE OF HAMISH by SIDNEY LANIER TROAS: ACT II. LATTER END OF THE CHORUS by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA UNCLE ANANIAS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |