At the Etoile

If in the lists of life he bore him well,
Sat gracefully or fell unhorsed in love,
No tongue is dowered now with speech to tell
Since he and death somewhere matched glove with glove.

What proud or humble union gave him birth,
Not reckoning on this immortal bed,
Is one more riddle that the cryptic earth
Though knowing chooses to retain unsaid.

Since he was weak as other men,--or like
Young Galahad as fair in thought as limb,
Each bit of moving dust in France may strike
Its breast in pride, knowing he stands for him.