 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
3
Ruskin at Rest
Brantwood, Sunday, January 21st, 1900.
The Rose of morning fades, and ghostly pale
The mountains seem to move into the rain,
The leafless hedges sigh, the water-plain
Sobs, and a sound of tears is in the Vale;
For he whose spirit-voice shall never fail,
Whose soul's arm ne'er shall lifted be in vain—
God's Knight, at rest beyond the touch of pain
Lies clad in Death's impenetrable mail.
The mountains seem to move into the rain,
The leafless hedges sigh, the water-plain
Sobs, and a sound of tears is in the Vale;
For he whose spirit-voice shall never fail,
Whose soul's arm ne'er shall lifted be in vain—
God's Knight, at rest beyond the touch of pain
Lies clad in Death's impenetrable mail.
And all the men whose helmets ever wore
The wild red-rose St. George for sign has given
Stand round, and bow the head and feel their swords,
And swear by him who taught them deeds not words
To fight for Love, till, as in days of yore
Labour have joy, and earth be filled with Heaven.
The wild red-rose St. George for sign has given
Stand round, and bow the head and feel their swords,
And swear by him who taught them deeds not words
To fight for Love, till, as in days of yore
Labour have joy, and earth be filled with Heaven.
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