Page:Collected poems vol 2 de la mare.djvu/91

 IS brow is seamed with line and scar;
 * His cheek is red and dark as wine;

The fires as of a Northern star
 * Beneath his cap of sable shine.

His right hand, bared of leathern glove,
 * Hangs open like an iron gin,

You stoop to see his pulses move,
 * To hear the blood sweep out and in.

He looks some king, so solitary
 * In earnest thought he seems to stand,

As if across a lonely sea
 * He gazed impatient of the land.

Out of the noisy centuries
 * The foolish and the fearful fade;

Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,
 * Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed. {{c|75