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...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: HARRY WILMANS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 24 by OMAR KHAYYAM THE FOUR ZOAS: NIGHTS THE SEVENTH AND EIGHTH by WILLIAM BLAKE PAIN IN PLEASURE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 12 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE PLUCKY PRINCE by MAY BRYANT THE HOME-RETURNING by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON A COMPLAINT TO HIS LADY by GEOFFREY CHAUCER THE CANTERBURY TALES: PROLOGUE TO SIR THOPAS by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |