Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed, Under the Moree battlement's shade; Close to the glacis our game was formed, There had the fight been, and there we played. Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt, Merrily capered the players all; North, was the garden where Nicholson slept, South, was the sweep of a battered wall. Near me a Musalman, civil and mild, Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell; And he said, as he counted his beads and smiled, 'God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PRISONER OF CHILLON: INTRODUCTORY SONNET by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS by CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE TRAVEL by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY WITCH-WIFE by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY PRAYER OF COLUMBUS by WALT WHITMAN |