Classic Poem

Light of great swords, banners all blazoned gold,
Bright lists of danger where with trumpets pass
Riders like those for whom bride-bells are bold
To beautiful desperate conflict, Michaelmas
Of golden heroes, how my sad soul saith
Your praise! Nor does to you her love deny,
Solemn strange Cups that carry dreamy death
To quench those fevers when they flame too high.
But now the Victories have broken wings;
The spirit of Rapture from the day of deeds
Is banished, and must spend on sorcerous strings
Her heart that perishes of splendid needs.--
Saints, lovers, high crusaders, give me too
Some simple and impassioned thing to do.