I see you sitting in the sungleams there,
  Scabbard on arm, the mighty blade withdrawn,
  Musing a little. Dreams of customs gone
People your mood—old loves, old quests to dare;
The sword so doubly tempered to its wont
  Of battle, keen to be swift smiting through
  Dark arms, you fondle almost as if you
Had borne it shouting in the fight's red front.

All this upon a quiet afternoon
  Of golden sun in Canada. The years
  Are but a curtain that you brush aside.
This hour you hear the ancient battle rune
  In gleaming glens, and to your sight appears
  Old war and all its honour and high pride.