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220

HIGH THOUGHTS

High thoughts and soaring impulse hath the age,
Our age, our age of passion and of song:
Fierce warfare with untruth its warriors wage,
Pitiless battle with each hoary wrong
That sits miscrowned, with impious sceptre strong.
A rose thou art, and I the rose's singer,
Yet will I with a spear-shaft supple and long
Amid the tilters at the tourney linger,
Then sweep again my harp with boisterous finger,
Strengthened by battle 'mid the echoing lists—
Of battle's red bloom I will be the bringer,
Yea, let my helm flame through the century's mists,
The helm of one who, unlike patient Keats,
Loved best where most the storm of battle beats.