After the silent and the stalwart go,
Pale with their journey to the flagrant stone,
Palsied hands shall bring the dead oak low
Long after the nesting eagles have flown.
After the sky has crushed the mountains down,
Cleaving the blade of ridges into dust,
When all high earth yields up its mortal crown
To matted root, the ax and plough to rust
And wait with battles lost, dull laurels won
Marked with the blood that stained the ancient clay,—
A slender candle melted and undone,
A shadow martyred on a darkened way,—
There will be yet the beauty time can spend
In sightless blowing down a vagrant wind.