And reading how, in that far month, the ranks Formed on the edge of the desert, armoured all, I wish to God that I had been with them When the first Norman leapt upon the wall, And Godfrey led the foremost of the Franks, And young Lord Raymond stormed Jerusalem.
The soldier month, the bulwark of the year, That never more shall hear such victories told; He stands apparent with his heaven-high spear, And helmeted of grand Etruscan gold. Our harvest is the bounty he has won, The loot his fiery temper takes by strength. Oh! Paladin of the Imperial sun! Oh! crown of all the seasons come at length!
This is sheer manhood; this is Charlemagne, When he with his wide host came conquering home From vengeance under Roncesvalles ta’en. Or when his bramble beard flaked red with foam Of bivouac wine-cups on the Lombard plain, What time he swept to grasp the world at Rome.
I, from a window where the Meuse is wide, Looked eastward out to the September night; The men that in the hopeless battle died Rose, and deployed, and stationed for the fight; A brumal army, vague and ordered large For mile on mile by some pale general; I saw them lean by companies to the charge, But no man living heard the bugle-call.
And fading still, and pointing to their scars, They fled in lessening cloud, where gray and high Dawn lay along the heaven in misty bars; But watching from that eastern casement, I Saw the Republic splendid in the sky, And round her terrible head the morning stars.
Look, how those steep woods on the mountain’s face Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold Invades our very noon: the year’s grown old, Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace. The vines below have lost their purple grace, And in Forrèze the white wrack backward rolled, Hangs to the hills tempestuous, fold on fold, And moaning gusts make desolate all the place.
Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry, Tired limbs I’ll stretch and steaming beast I’ll tether; Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free, And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather; Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we, Singing old songs and drinking wine together.
November is some historied Emperor, Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate, Who from his refuge high has caught the roar Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war, And arms the garrison of his last heir-loom, And shakes the sky to its extremest shore With battle against irrevocable doom.