My vision saith not; and I seeNo more; but now ride doubtfully To the battle of the plain."
And the grass-edge of the great down Was cut clean as a lawn,While the levies thronged from near and far,From the warm woods of the western star,And the King went out to his last war On a tall grey horse at dawn.
And news of his far-off fighting Came slow and brokenly,From the land of the East Saxons, From the sunrise and the sea.
From the plains of the white sunrise, And sad St. Edmund's crown,Where the pools of Essex pale and gleam Out beyond London town —
In mighty and doubtful fragments, Like faint or fabled wars,Climbed the old hills of his renown,Where the bald brow of White Horse Down Is close to the cold stars.
But away in the eastern places The wind of death walked high,
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