The Judgment of God

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 today.

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;

And how Lord Roger bore his face

A league above his spear-point, high

Above the owls, to that strong place

Among the waters; yea, yea, cry:

What a brave champion we have got!

Sir Oliver, the flower of all

The Hainault knights! The day being hot,

He sat beneath a broad white pall,

White linen over all his steel;

What a good knight he look’d! his sword

Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel

Its steadfast edge clear as his word.

And he look’d solemn; how his love

Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear!

How all the ladies up above

Twisted their pretty hands! so near

The fighting was: Ellayne! Ellayne!

They cannot love like you can, who

Would burn your hands off, if that pain

Could win a kiss; am I not tru............