"Barbara the beautiful stood up as a queen set free,
Whose mouth is set to a terrible cup and the trumpet of liberty:
'I have looked forth from a window that no man now shall bar,
Cæsar's toppling battle-towers shall never stretch so far;
The slaves are dancing in their chains, the child laughs at the rod,
Because of the bird of the three wings, and the third face of God.'
The sword upon his shoulder shifted and shone and fell,
And Barbara lay very small and crumpled like a shell."
What wall upon what hinges turned stands open like a door?
Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human eyes,
What light upon what ancient way shines to a far-off floor,
The line of the lost land of France or the plains of Paradise?
"Cæsar smiled above the gods, his lip of stone was curled,
His iron armies wound like chains round and round the world,
And the strong slayer of his own that cut down flesh for grass,
Smiled too, and went to his own tower like a walking tower of brass,
And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb; and far towards the foam
Men saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming home. . . .
"Blood of his blood upon the sword stood red but never dry,
He wiped it slowly, till the blade was blue as the blue sky:
But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack, spat down a blinding brand,
And all of him lay back and flat as his shadow on the sand."
