Sinfonia Eroica

He comes, the happy warrior,
The wind has blown him on!
He is great and terrible and sweet,
From flaming hair to rapid feet,
His presence strides the earth full-armed, complete.

Oh, underneath his helmet-rim
The crowded lilies lie.
From some Elysian feast he comes,
Struck with the passion of the drums,
And fragrant from the feast, behold, he comes!

He holds all morning in his face,
All fury and all fire.
His panting heart bursts with disdain
Of all that hinders him from pain;
And mine with longing that he might remain.