Melancholy of the Meadows
Away from the field of violence
turned the captain to the highlands,
flowed there with pacific shyness
a brook like a mirror of silence.
He ye who come from yonder....
this bloodshed did you ponder?
the cattle grazed meadows highs
is reeking with mellow vice.
People call ye King of Lands!
Trophy of thy bloody hands?
The only thing that come of war
a sorry heart full of scars.
Slowly the captain took his shield
wishing he had left the field.
Knowed he that when duty calls
march in like 'em wrecking balls.
Turned he from the shining mirror
which for him was a thing of terror.
Marching with his swooping sword
spoke he not a single word.

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