The Maid
THUNDER of riotous hoofs over the quaking sod;
Clash of reeking squadrons, steel-capped, iron-shod;
The White Maid, and the white horse, and the flapping banner of God.
Black hearts riding for money; red hearts riding for fame;
The maid who rides for France and the king who rides for shame.
Gentlemen, fools and a saint, riding in Christ’s high name!
Dust to dust it is written! Wind-scattered are lance and bow.
Dust, the Cross of St. George; dust, the banner of snow.
The bones of the king are crumbled and rotted the shafts of the foe.
Forgotten, the young knight’s valour. Forgotten, the captain’s skill.
Forgotten, the fear and the hate and the mailed hands raised to kill.
Forgotten, the shields that clashed and the arrows that cried so shrill.
Like a story from some old book, that battle of Long Ago!
Shadows, the poor French King and the might of his English Foe:
Shadows, the charging nobles and the archers kneeling a-row–
But a flame in my heart and my eyes, the Maid with the banner of snow.
