Martin
D . Armstrong .
And
hands
and
axe
grew
bloody
in
the
glare ,
And
gleaming
sap
oozed
from
the
wounded
tree ,
But
still my body
glowed
exultingly
Like
iron
in
the
forge,
as if
some rare
Immortal
essence
from
the setting
sun
Had made me godlike.
Lonely
on
the
hill
I knew
myself
transfigured , and my will,
Responsible
to
no man ,
urged me
on
While
all
the
hosts
of
darkness
mustered
round.
But when
the west
had
smouldered
into
ash ,
The
first
tree
swayed
and
snapped ,
and
with
a
crash
Hurled
down
its
leafy mass
and
strewed
the
ground
With
splintered
boughs
.
Seven
feudal centuries
Fell
in
that ruin
;
and
,
it
seemed
,
the
power
,
Vanquished
and
driven
from
its ancestral bower
,
Took
root
in
me
,
for
to
the
other
trees
Strong and
refreshed
I
turned
.
And
now
the
gap
Of lurid
sky
which
I
had
opened
there
Grew
cold
and
star
-
sown
,
and
the keen
night
air
Was sweet
with
leafage
bruised
and
living
sap
.
But when
at
last not
light
enough
was left
To
labour
by
,
I
kindled
logs
of
oak
With
crackling
furze
,
and
glare
of
flame and
smoke
Illumined my midnight
smithy
.
So
I
cleft
14