Classic Poem

Yet rest and flowers, for swords and pain, are sweet
Sweet too the whispering of the summer wind
Outside the casement, softly through the blind
Pulsing:—advancing, playing at swift retreat!
Glad too it is the old soft glance to meet,
No longer doubtful, but for ever kind;
Glad all maturer raptures of the mind;
Pleasant the simple warmth, the strong June heat.

Oh, after the long fighting and the labour,
Pleasant it is to quit the ensanguined sword;
Joyous to cast aside the crimsoned sabre,
Unwinding from the wrist its blood-glued cord:
Merry to list to moonlight harp and tabour,
And all glad sounds through leafy vistas poured.