"Do," I replied; and she read with—oh, just a suspicion of a tremor in her clear smooth voice, these lines:—
Like an old battle, youth is wildWith bugle and spear, and counter-cry,Fanfare and drummery, yet a childDreaming of that sweet chivalry,The piercing terror cannot see.
He, with a mild and serious eyeAlong the azure of the years,Sees the sweet pomp sweep hurtling by;But he sees not death's blood and tears,Sees not the plunging of the spears.········O, if with such simplicityHimself take arms and suffer war;With beams his targe shall gilded be,Though in the thickening gloom be farThe steadfast light of any star.
Though hoarse War's eagle on him perch,Quickened with guilty lightnings—thereIt shall in vain for terror search,Where a child's eyes beneath bloody hairGaze purely through the dingy air.
She closed the book, and we were silent for a moment, in which I felt within myself curious little surges of sympathy breaking over rocks of difference. And then she said: "Well?"
