"Fold up the tents; the camp is struck; away!

Vain victor who rides not in rest his lance!"
Beside the hearthstone where the flame-flakes fell,
There lay the cold keys of the citadel.





THE CITADEL

A night wind-swept and bound about with blee
Of Erebus; all light and cheer within;
White restless hands that falter, then begin
To weave a music-voiced fantasy.

And life, and death, and love, and weariness,
And unrequital, thrid the maze of sound;
And one voice saith, "Behold, the lost is found!"
And saith not any more for joyfulness.

Out of the night there comes a wanderer,
Who waits upon the threshold, and is still;
And listens, and bows down his head, until

His grief-drawn breath startles the heart of her.
The victor vanquished, at her feet he fell,
A prisoner in his conquered citadel.