A WILD MOON riding high from cloud to cloud,
That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath,
Hell-s children revel along the shuddering heath
With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud:
A worse fair face than witchcraft-s, passion-proud,
With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath
And lips that bade the assassin-s sword find sheath
Deep in the heart whereto love-s heart was vowed:
A game of close contentious crafts and creeds
Played till white England bring black Spain to shame:
A son-s bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds
High conscience lights for mother-s love and fame:
Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds:
Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name.
Thomas Middleton: Ix
Algernon Charles Swinburne
(1)
Poem topics: children, moon, mother, passion, son, soul, wild, white, crown, deep, bright, face, bring, pure, game, black, shame, beneath, conscience, cloud, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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