Among the graves I stand, my cross upon my shoulder,
An envoy from the graves, words of dead prophets bearing,
And I reach to the distance, as far as eye is faring,
And everywhere that my free thought can venture boldly.
And I send forth a cry, from mound to mound unfolding,
Like whirlwinds' flight through the broad spaces tearing,
A cry, a battle-slogan from oath of age-old swearing,
That only dreams in harps, where songs enchanted hold it.
With a dying slave's last agonised death-rattle,
With the dark prayer of a mother-murdering sinner,
I seek the sun, the sun without end or beginning.
Let my soul be burned like tree-trunk felled and shattered,
Let my eyes wilt like frail lily-flower - no matter -
Only let my cross blaze forth with fire unstinted.
1915