This is no matter of the wars: in war Thy king, old friend, is less than king of thine, And comrade less than follower. Hast thou loved Ever—loved woman, not as chance may love, But as thou hast loved thy sword or friend—or me? Thou hast shewn me love more stout of heart than death. Death quailed before thee when thou gav’st me life, Borne down in battle. Dost thou know rose from thistle or bindweed? Man, Speak as our north wind speaks, if harsh and hard— Truth.…
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