Though all your flags sweep stormily in air,
And thousand hoofs are whirling fiery seed,
The quiet forest hides my folly, freed
From good in reach, nor leagued to aught more fair.
This is my camp of tears, and doubt, and care,
Where I who long to fight may soothe my greed,
Full of sad liberty; and if indeed
The One I lack came hither unaware,—
If sudden stood beside the saddle-bow
The Outcast of all time and every land,
With head drooped like the lily’s parching cup,
I dare to dream that I my King should know,
And lean to kiss, within that wounded Hand,
My only use, my honors, folded up.