Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Martyrs' Idyl: And Shorter Poems
His mound is sweet to me. All my blood aches, Since driven onward like a dark hill cloud, Dizzy with secret lightnings nowhere spent, I chase yon happy sun to his bright death, Alas, I know not whither: but I know I shall not see the myriad shields uphung In camp to-night, nor on our cypresses Smoke rise and sink in loath blue fountain Spray. So far, so far I drift from even them Who fill one gourd with me, who cheer my heart, Who come in, warm and singing, to the tent, And miss me who am gone away, I think, Forever, though a day; out of their world.
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