His country’s trail that wandered wearily
aimless in air, sans wit, sans enterprise,
was swept in rapture as a flame that flies
by that swift-soaring heart, captive and free.
Out of the dust where it had lain so long
the pure heroic vein he disinterred,
weaving its live connection with the Word
of history and hope, pulsating strong.
Captive in love he led the swordblades gleam,
rearmed the chilled and homeless souls of men
gave thirst anew where waters lay forlorn,
roots to the star and to the ear of corn,
and, that his span of days might earth redeem,
died, yielding up his beauty in her again.