Here you will find the Poem A Battle of poet Isabella Valancy Crawford
SLOWLY the Moon her banderoles of light Unfurls upon the sky; her fingers drip Pale, silvery tides; her armoured warriors Leave Day's bright tents of azure and of gold, Wherein they hid them, and in silence flock Upon the solemn battlefield of Night To try great issues with the blind old king, The Titan Darkness, who great Pharoah fought With groping hands, and conquered for a span. The starry hosts with silver lances prick The scarlet fringes of the tents of Day, And turn their crystal shields upon their breasts, And point their radiant lances, and so wait The stirring of the giant in his caves. The solitary hills send long, sad sighs As the blind Titan grasps their locks of pine And trembling larch to drag him toward the sky, That his wild-seeking hands may clutch the Moon From her war-chariot, scythed and wheeled with light, Crush bright-mailed stars, and so, a sightless king, Reign in black desolation! Low-set vales Weep under the black hollow of his foot, While sobs the sea beneath his lashing hair Of rolling mists, which, strong as iron cords, Twine round tall masts and drag them to the reefs. Swifter rolls up Astarte's light-scythed car; Dense rise the jewelled lances, groves of light; Red flouts Mars' banner in the voiceless war (The mightiest combat is the tongueless one); The silvery dartings of the lances prick His fingers from the mountains, catch his locks And toss them in black fragments to the winds, Pierce the vast hollow of his misty foot, Level their diamond tips against his breast, And force him down to lair within his pit And thro' its chinks thrust down his groping hands To quicken Hell with horror-for the strength That is not of the Heavens is of Hell.