 | Song-spray |  |
108
XIV. “DOST THOU CONTEMN ME?”
Dost thou contemn me in that I am red?
The stains of battle are upon my limbs
And with the strenuous war-cry my brain swims;
I am not fit for bower or lady's bed.
The sword-blades seem to circle round my head
E'en now in thought, and dust mine eyesight dims;
Am I a man for love or marriage-hymns,—
To whom a rose as thou art should be wed?
The stains of battle are upon my limbs
And with the strenuous war-cry my brain swims;
I am not fit for bower or lady's bed.
The sword-blades seem to circle round my head
E'en now in thought, and dust mine eyesight dims;
Am I a man for love or marriage-hymns,—
To whom a rose as thou art should be wed?
Thou art red too, but red as is a rose
Of perfect petals: I am flawed and marred
And weary and grim and battle-streaked and scarred,—
My head-piece has the dints of ceaseless blows,
And I have ridden for years with visor barred;
Are mine arms where a woman should repose?
Of perfect petals: I am flawed and marred
And weary and grim and battle-streaked and scarred,—
My head-piece has the dints of ceaseless blows,
And I have ridden for years with visor barred;
Are mine arms where a woman should repose?
| Song-spray | |