WHEN the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain, We stood and drank of the last free air we never could taste again: They had led us back from the lost battle, to halt we knew not where And stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair. The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless lands And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands. There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome;
And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home; Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor, That lead to a low door at last; and beyond there is no door.
And the Breton to the Norman spoke, like a small child spoke he, And his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea: There are more windows in one house than there are eyes to see, There are more doors in a man?s house, but God has hid the key: Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnesseth Barbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death.
It seemed the wheel of the world stood still an instant in its turning, More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of Valmy mill: While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning, Still as the heart of a whirlwind the heart of the world stood still.
Barbara the beautiful Had praise of lute and pen: Her hair was like a summer night Dark and desired of men.
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