Chapter XXIV: Aspirations

Light of great swords, banners all blazoned gold, Bright lists of danger where with trumpets pass Riders like those for whom bride-bells are bold To beautiful desperate conflict, Michaelmas Of golden heroes, how my sad soul saith Your praise! Nor does to you her love deny, Solemn strange Cups that carry dreamy death To quench those fevers when they flame too high. But now the Victories have broken wings; The spirit of Rapture from the day of deeds Is banished, and must spend on sorcerous strings Her heart that perishes of splendid needs.-- Saints, lovers, high crusaders, give me too Some simple and impassioned thing to do.