Like the birds that meet
For the feast of war,
Till the air of fight
With our wings be stirred,
As it whirrs from the flight
Of the ravening bird.
Like the flakes that drift
On the snow-wind's breath,
Many and swift,
And winged for death--
Greedy and fleet,
Do we speed from far,
Like the birds that meet
On the bridge of war.
Fleet as ghosts that wail,
When the dart strikes true,
Do the swift shafts hail,
Till they drink warm dew.
Keen and low
Do the grey shafts sing
The Song of the Bow,
The sound of the string.

This was the message of Death, and this was the first sound that had
broken the stillness of his home.

At the welcome of this music which spoke to his heart--this music he had
heard so many a time--the Wanderer knew that there was war at hand.
He knew that the wings of his arrows should be swift to fly, and their
beaks of bronze were whetted to drink the blood of men. He put out his