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...WHEN THERE IS PEACE by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON AT THE TAVERN by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR I AM THE PEOPLE, THE MOB by CARL SANDBURG IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 25 by ALFRED TENNYSON THE YOUTH OF MAN by MATTHEW ARNOLD FRIEND by MARJORIE DUGDALE ASHE |