HE WHOM I loved loved no one -- Nor woman, child, nor man: His joy was but in battle, To lead his rushing clan. I had the gift of magic -- Through changing forms I ran! I was his white plume, floating Above the serried van! The plume was but a target, Amid the flying scath; And, then, was I his broadsword, Annealed in fiery bath, And through the hated phalanx We cut a groaning swath; But when his arch foe scaped him, He brake me, in his wrath! Then I became his corselet, That next his heart he wore; Ay, and his useless buckler, For he fell wounded sore. I was the wild, strange music That went his soul before; And "Hark!" he murmured, dying, "There's singing on the moor!" I was that wild, strange music That sought his soul to win! I led him onward, onward, Till died the battle din; Across the moor, the upland -- By breathless stream and lin, I turned, to draw him to me In regions fine and thin! His eyes were oped, to know me, But bright with wrath their gleam. I had the gift of magic -- Fate, only, is supreme! I bore him to Valhalla, In the red Planet's gleam; And there he dreams of battle -- And I am but his Dream! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RIVER-MERCHANT'S WIFE: A LETTER by LI PO GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: CHRIST'S REPLY by EDWARD TAYLOR IN YOUTH IS PLEASURE by ROBERT WEVER ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS' LOVE LETTERS by OSCAR WILDE ONE PERSON: 16 by ELINOR WYLIE OF THE REED THAT THE JEWS SET IN OUR SAVIOUR'S HAND by WILLIAM ALABASTER |