Excerpt
When the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain,We stood and drank of the last free air we never could taste again:They had led us back from the lost battle, to halt we knew not whereAnd stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair.The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless landsAnd a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands. “There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome;And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home;Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor,That lead to a low door at last; and beyond there is no door.” And the Breton to the Norman spoke, like a small child spoke he,And his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea:“There are more windows in one house than there are eyes to see,There are more doors in a man’s house, but God has hid the key:Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnessethBarbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death.” It seemed the wheel of the world stood still an instant in its turning,More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of Valmy mill:While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning,Still as the heart of a whirlwind the heart of the world stood still. “Barbara the beautifulHad praise of lute and pen:Her hair was like a summer nightDark and desired of men. Her feet like birds from far awayThat linger and light in doubt;And her face was like a windowWhere a man’s first love looked out. Her sire was master of many slavesA hard man of his hands;They built a tower about herIn the desolate golden lands, Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs,Planned with an ancient plan,And set two windows in the towerLike the two eyes of a man.” Our guns were set toward the foe; we had no word, for firing.Grey in the gateway of St. Gond the Guard of the tyrant shone;Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and retiring,The Breton line went backward and the Breton tale went on. “Her father had sailed across the seaFrom the harbour of AfricaWhen all the slaves took up their toolsFor the bidding of Barbara. She smote the bare wall with her handAnd bad them smite again;She poured them wealth of wine and meatTo stay them in their pain. And cried through the lifted thunderOf thronging hammer and hod‘Throw open the third windowIn the third name of God.’ Then the hearts failed and the tools fell,And far towards the foam,Men saw a shadow on the sandsAnd her father coming home.” Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word is flyingBefore the touch, before the time, we may not loose a breath:Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be no replying,Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to death. “There were two windows in your tower,Barbara, Barbara,For all between the sun and moonIn the lands of Africa. Hath a man three eyes, Barbara,A bird three wings,That you have riven roof and wallTo look upon vain things?” Her voice was like a wandering thingThat falters yet is free,Whose soul has drunk in a distant landOf the rivers of liberty....