IF IN the lists of life he bore him well,Sat gracefully or fell unhorsed in love,No tongue is dowered now with speech to tellSince he and death somewhere matched glove with glove.
What proud or humble union gave him birth,Not reckoning on this immortal bed,Is one more riddle that the cryptic earthThough knowing chooses to retain unsaid.
Since he was weak as other men—or likeYoung Galahad as fair in thought as limb,Each bit of moving dust in France may strikeIts breast in pride, knowing he stands for him.
