Equinox I (04).pdf

16
THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD
His strength is done; he cannot stir.
The child complains—how feebly now!
His eyes are blank; he looks at her;
The cold sweat gathers on his brow.
To save the world—three days away!
His life in knighthood's life is furled,
And knighthood's life in his—to-day!—
His darling staked against the world!
Will he die there, his task undone?
Or dare he live, at such a cost?
He cries against the impassive sun:
The world is dim, is all but lost.
When, with the bitterness of death
Cutting his soul, his fingers clench
The piteous passage of her breath.
The dews of horror rise and drench
Sir Palamede the Saracen.
Then, rising from the hideous meal,
He plunges to the land of men
With nerves renewed and limbs of steel.
Who is the naked man that rides
Yon tameless stallion on the plain,
His face like Hell’s? What fury guides
The maniac beast without a rein?