The Gate of the Armies

Swing out thy doors, high gate that dreadst not night,
Bronze to the left and iron to the right.
Deep in a cistern has been flung thy key ;
If dread thee close, anathema on thee ;
And like twin shears let thy twin portals cut
The hand's fist through that would thee falsely shut
Again thy dusky vault hath heard resound
Steps of strong men who never yet gave ground,
Marching with whom came breathless and came bold
Victory naked with broad wings of gold.
Her glaive to guide them calmly soars and dips ;
Her kiss is lifeblood's purple on their lips.
From rose-round mouths the clarions shake and shrill,
A brazen boom of bees that hunt to kill.
" Drink, swarm of war, stream from your plated hives
And cull death's dust on flowery-fleshed fierce lives,
So, when back home to native town ye march,
Beneath those golden wings and my black arch
May all men watch my pavement, as each pace
Of your red feet leaves clear its sanguine trace."