 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
III
Lo, on a height hewn sheer out of night,
Where Mystery labors,
Through the Hadean heath from an awe beneath,
A sprouting of sabers lean from the sheath!
And bursting the husk of the travailing dusk,
The world-old crop of the dragon's teeth!
Where Mystery labors,
43
A sprouting of sabers lean from the sheath!
And bursting the husk of the travailing dusk,
The world-old crop of the dragon's teeth!
Banners of battle-might, spear-glint and sword-light
Over the dream-vague, frowning battalions!
Hark, the hoarse trumpets bray! Sensing the coming fray,
Wraith-ridden, thunder-hoofed stallions neigh
Terror into the glooming day!
Over the dream-vague, frowning battalions!
Hark, the hoarse trumpets bray! Sensing the coming fray,
Wraith-ridden, thunder-hoofed stallions neigh
Terror into the glooming day!
A death-hush falls. The shadow sprawls
Sick in the failing noon.
The sun flies shorn, aghast, forlorn,
Like a spectral moon surprised at morn.
Deathly green is the meadow-sheen,
Ghastly green the corn.
Sick in the failing noon.
The sun flies shorn, aghast, forlorn,
Like a spectral moon surprised at morn.
Deathly green is the meadow-sheen,
Ghastly green the corn.
| The Stranger at the Gate | |