"Swerve to the left, son Roger," he said,
"When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit,
Swerve to the left, then out at his head,
And the Lord God give you joy of it!"
The blue owls on my father's hood
Were a little dimm'd as I turn'd away;
This giving up of blood for blood
Will finish here somehow to-day.
So—when I walk'd out from the tent,
Their howling almost blinded me;
Yet for all that I was not bent
By any shame. Hard by, the sea
Made a noise like the aspens where
We did that wrong, but now the place
Is very pleasant, and the air
Blows cool on any passer's face.
And all the wrong is gather'd now
Into the circle of these lists—
Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how
His hands were cut off at the wrists;
142
