A WILD MOON riding high from cloud to cloud, <br />That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath, <br />Hell’s children revel along the shuddering heath <br />With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud: <br />A worse fair face than witchcraft’s, passion-proud, <br />With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath <br />And lips that bade the assassin’s sword find sheath <br />Deep in the heart whereto love’s heart was vowed: <br />A game of close contentious crafts and creeds <br />Played till white England bring black Spain to shame: <br />A son’s bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds <br />High conscience lights for mother’s love and fame: <br />Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds: <br />Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name.<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thomas-middleton-ix/
