Classic Poem

At the forging of the Sword
The mountain roots were stirred
Like the heart-beats of a bird;
Like flax the tall trees waved,
So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword
So loud the hammers fell,
The thrice-sealed gates of Hell
Burst wide their glowing jaws,
Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword
King mother Earth was rent
Like an Arab's dusky tent,
And, monster-like, she fed
On her children, at the forging of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword,
So loud the blows they gave,
Up sprang the panting wave,
And blind and furious slew,
Shrill-shouting to the Forgers of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword
The startled air swift whirled
The red flames round the world,
From the anvil where was smitten
The steel the Forgers wrought into the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword
The maid and matron fled
And hid them with the dead;
Fierce prophets sang their doom,
More deadly than the wounding of the Sword.

At the forging of the Sword
Swift leaped the quiet hearts
In the meadows and the marts;
The tides of men were drawn
By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword.

Thus wert thou forged, O lissome Sword!
On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought,
In such red flames thy metal fused,
From such deep hells that metal brought.
O Sword, dread lord, thou speakst no word,
But dumbly rulest, king and lord!

Less than the gods by some small span,
Slim Sword, how great thy lieges be!
Glint but in one wild camp-fire's light,
Thy god-like vassals rush to thee.
O Sword, dread lord, thou speakst no word,
But dumbly rulest, king and lord!

Sharp god, how vast thy altars be!
Green valleys, sacrificial cups,
Flow with the purple lees of blood;
Its smoke is round the mountain tops.
O Sword, dread lord, thou speakst no word,
But dumbly rulest, king and lord!

O amorous god, fierce lover thou!
Bright sultan of a million brides,
Thou knowst no rival to thy kiss,
Thy loves are thine whate'er betides.
O Sword, dread lord, thou speakst no word,
But dumbly rulest, king and lord!

Unflesh thee, Sword! No more, no more,
Thy steel no more shall sting and shine!
Pass thro' the fusing fires again,
And learn to prune the laughing vine.
Fall Sword, dread lord — with one accord
The plough and hook we'll own as lord!