Arachne: A Literary Journal. No. 1
Outside among the talking criss-cross reeds
The night of rain; then from the south
The whisper softly growing that none heeds
At first, till it comes weaving with a giant's mouth;
Till through the pass the hissing torches stream
Under the steely arrows of the rain,
And cavalry and foot and sweating team
Check at the ford and then surge on again.
The heralds in the Gothic Saxon blue
Come spurring, and the levelled trumpets sing.
Then in the courtyard clamour: cracked bells ring
Like waterfalls, and the exultant host pours through
The shattered hall to claim its exiled king.