| |
| LOW and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, | |
| Where I had seven sons until to-day— | |
| A little hill of hay your spur has scattered.… | |
| This is not Paris. You have lost your way. | |
| |
| You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, | 5 |
| Surprised at the surprise that was your plan; | |
| Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, | |
| Find never more the death-door of Sedan. | |
| |
| Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, | |
| Pay you a penny for each son you slay? | 10 |
| Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment | |
| For what you have lost. And how shall I repay? | |
| |
| What is the price of that red spark that caught me | |
| From a kind farm that never had a name? | |
| What is the price of that dead man they brought me? | 15 |
| For other dead men do not look the same. | |
| |
| How should I pay for one poor graven steeple | |
| Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? | |
| How should I pay you, miserable people? | |
| How should I pay you everything you owe? | 20 |
| |
| Unhappy, can I give you back your honor? | |
| Tho’ I forgave, would any man forget? | |
| While all our great green earth has, trampled on her, | |
| The treason and terror of the night we met. | |
| |
| Not any more in vengeance or in pardon, | 25 |
| One old wife bargains for a bean that’s hers, | |
| You have no word to break; no heart to harden. | |
| Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs. | |
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