Friday, May 21, 2010


R. E. H.

Died June 11, 1936


Conan, the warrior king, lies stricken dead  
   Beneath a sky of cryptic stars; the lute  
   That was his laughter stilled, and sadly mute  
Upon the chilling earth his youthful head.  
There sounds for him no more the clamorous fray,  
   But dirges now, where once the trumpet loud:  
   About him press old memories for shroud,  
And ended is the conflict of the day.
Death spilled the blood of him who loved the fight  
   As men love mistresses, and fought it well—  
   His fair young flesh is marble where he fell  
With broken sword that vanquished all but 
   Night; And as of mythic kings our words must speak  
   Of Conan now, who roves where dreamers seek.

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