Classic Poem

Wind cannot bring so far the blood and dust,
But only raise your head up—do you hear
Faint bell-notes from the plain? Blade-stroke, sword-thrust,
Shield-rattle! They are fighting, and you not there.

He would not heed the challenge, would not stir,
Though none so well as he that signal knew;
From his unhappy memories would not pause,
Though the breeze whispered and the danger grew.

No man, a maiden drives them from the field,
A wicked huntress out of the cold moon!
She touches them, they die, they have no shield;
What will you come to, if you come not soon?

But he with bowed head let the voice go by,
And felt rebellious loathing, and behind
Impenetrable silence nursed disgust.
This, then, was this the great hour he should find—
Brief, crowded with beauty, bringing fame?
Beauty? What beauty? Fame? Blown with the dust!

Take up your arms, come down and fight again,
They have bidden the wind carry their last cry.
You shall hear now the curse of dying men;
What will you say, Achilles? Must they die?

It was the wind that freshened, or the wave
Of flight and terror toward his station broke;
At last he heard, and wearily bound on
Breast-plate, picked up the shield, the spear of oak,
Toward the battle strode superbly down,
Wearing the armor lightly, a mere cloak,
Easy in his hand the spear; and bold he went
Unhelmeted, with insolent beauty brave,
His body moving in rhythm magnificent.

He came down from his lonely hill, by charred
And scattered ashes of abandoned fires,
Hoof-prints of stamping horses, and spilled oats,
Through the weird, empty camp, where yesternight
The army took its shelter. Here were coats
Dropped at the first alarum, a wine-cup
With half its ruby burden yet untouched,
And the ironic dice lay on the board.
Beyond the tents he walked through a green calm
Of clover, untrodden meadows poppy-sown,
And then the crowded plain and the loud fight.

Before him as he came the host made room—
All peril over, with him there, the one man!
Yet without shout they saw him, raised no cry,
No welcome, so many bodies lay, for whom
He came late to the rescue. But he strode by,
Bringing his solitude, and opened up
A wedge of silence till he reached the van.
Then from the other side the headlong foe
Following the maiden felt him in the track,
Caught sight of armor and his golden hair,
Fled unabashed, and left those two alone—
With awe and terror, both lines swaying back
Within a girdled silence gave them space.
She, when the battle ceased from round her, stood
Waiting for him, a little thrilled to know
The moment come at last, and see him there
Splendid as they had said, now face to face.
And he casually marked against the grove
Of slender cypress that behind her rose,
Her helmet crested, her corselet glittering;
Her belted sword, the two spears in her hand,
Twin javelins, light as a hunter's dart,
All gleaming against the shadowy green.
Illusive radiance on that vivid form—
Smoothness to sight and touch, the enchanted sheen
Of jade or porphyry—the gold sunbeams threw;
Caught from this world she seemed, and wrought in art,
Cut marble or ivory cameo.
What eyes the helmet hid, he tried to guess,
To trace her body under the bronzen dress,
He fancied her heart panting, her wild pulse
After the running and the rain of blows,
Yet asked again whether she breathed at all,
So motionless her beauty held its pose.

Each stood on guard to know the other's will.
With unexcited spirit, unlifted arm,
He studied the bright mystery until
The quiet weighed upon him like a charm.
With that she threw a spear, a silver flash;
He caught it on his shield, and the shaft broke.
Did her heart faint a little, certitude
Fall from her? She leapt toward him like a flame,
She cast that other javelin furiously,
And drew her sword. He only leaned aside,
Slipped from the peril, and reaching back for aim,
Drove true through the vain bronze his matchless spear,
Straight through the corselet to her living heart.
It never left his hand, she was so near;
His fingers on the weapon felt her death,
Felt the woman quiver along the wood.

He had not loosed a stream of fighting wrath
To ride him lightly over things like this—
To see her body crumble with quick breath.
He leaned, and gently turned the relaxed form.
To lift the armor on the wounded side;
How stubborn, as he raised it, seemed the bronze!
And how to draw the spear-head out? He tried
In pity not to disturb the delicate cloth
Blood-molded to her bosom, soft and warm.
With eyes impulse-averted he untied
The helmet from the limp and drooping head,
And lo, a face made for another fate—
Brown hair upon a white and queenly brow.
And dreaming lips that held no curve of hate,
Eyelids self-closed, as though content to sleep,
And cheeks with rose-bloom not yet ebbed away;
Beauty that called for worship and the prayers
Of lovers tortured with their empty arms,
Yet in itself austere, remote, unmoved;
A face to set on passion, yet beneath
Archness and ardor, beneath the golden breasts,
A maiden soul—as at evening when fleecy clouds
Blush in the east a farewell to the sun,
Glides, under the warmth, untouched, the new moon.

He stood up to his height, gazed down at her,
Then stooping yet again as though he must,
Took up his scarlet spear from where it lay,
Then gazed once more on the face whitening fast.

He that had killed her, found it ill to leave
The fragile danger he had laid in dust;
Not well to stay, but hard to turn at last
To thread his journey through the evening camp,
Through cheerful noises around supper-fires,
Through laughter of soldiers at their lucky day,
With joke and ribald song. He heard one say
How he would use his safety after war—
What sort of woman, and what kind of wine.