The Anemone

Sanguine flower,
Nursling of the Syrian sun,
Blooming for a fragile hour
Where the Banias waters run;

On my heart
You have taken steadfast hold;
In your splendor you are part
Of the chivalry of old.

On my eyes,
Seeing you, the leaguers' tents,
With their silken streamers, rise
Around Acre's battlements.

As of yore,
Flash the sword and scimitar;
Cross and Crescent meet once more
In the gory shock of war.

For a space
Glows the vision, and is gone!—
Of the warriors ne'er a trace,
Only you still blooming on!

Spring by spring,
As your crimson flower appears,
Runs a new remembrancing
Of their battles down the years.