Classic Poem

By the first hour of dawn
Up Congy's steep vine-glades
Retreat the tunics grey
And through forests of Compiegne
Northwards by stealth, by night,
The enemy his rearguards hath withdrawn —
The wolf's jaw broken by the bite —
To camp upon the brows of Aisne.
Then, as a Chinese juggler standing far away
Will shower his volley'd blades
Round a pale woman's patient face
And delicate throat, leant back, unscored
By the fringe of knives fixed quivering in the board,
He rains from the hills his fire
On Reims, the sea of house-roofs round the base
Of the mountainous Basilica twin-towered,
And spares it in the midst, crushing them all,
To be his witness and memorial
Of skill and grace.