Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments I.pdf/38



Doubt, despairing, crime, and craft, Are upon that honied shaft. It has made the crowned king Crouch beneath his suffering; Made the beauty's cheek more pale Than the foldings of her veil: Like a child the soldiers kneel, Who had mocked at flame or steel; Bade the fires of genius turn On their own breasts; and there burn, A wound, a blight, a curse, a doom, Bowing young hearts to the tomb. Well may storm be on the sky, And the waters roll on high, When that passion passes by: Earth below, and heaven above, Well may bend to thee, O Love!