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.