Love scorns that Love implore you
To bind his hurts or heal;
Prays only, arm around you,
To draw on hours that hound you,
To whirl his sword before you
And fence your path with steel.
Not for the beauty of you,
The peace of all your ways,
He burns — but in your quarrel
To hold the pass of peril,
To stand at arms above you
Against embattled days.
No comfort for his blundering
He cries your heart to yield,
But that his arm enfold you,
His shield-arm shield and hold you
Safe, when the foe charge thundering,—
His sword against the field!