  It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey, A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay; No name was chiselled at his side to say What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone, Only the armour with green moss o’ergrown, And those grim words no years had worn away. It may be haply in the songs of old His deeds were wonders to sweet music set, His name the thunder of a battle call, Among the things forgotten and untold; His only record is the dead man’s threat— “An hour will come that shall atone for all!” |
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