Victor
B. Neuburg .
O
dream
of
the
red
olden
time !
O
clash
of armour
splendid !
A
string
of wind -begotten
rime,
And
all their
pain
was
ended !
O
lonely
sea !
O
lonely
earth
!
O
dying
art
of
glorious mirth !
My
song, my
song
is little
worth
To bring
their
bastard
seed
to
birth !
What
need of me in
thunder - flash
?
What
need
in
battle
story
?
What
need
among
the whitened
ash
Of old
far
-
winnowed
glory
?
They
call me not
to
birth
-
bed
throes
;
Invoke me not with
gold
and
rose
;
The summer
wanes
,
the
summer
grows
,
They
call me not
from
fire
or
snows
.
I
linger
by
the
cottage
-
door
When
twilight sings
of
sorrow
;
I
Ait around
the
gorse
-
strewn
moor
,
And all
the
gold
I
borrow
.
But
in
mine
eyes my
doom
is
set
,
Yea
!
in
their
golden
-
glooming
fret
Is
woven
the divine
regret
,
And
ah
!
my
birth
-
time
is
not
yet
.
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